


The Future Built Upon the Past

by Iturbide



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Character Interpretation, Alternate Timelines, Blood, Death, F/M, Gore, Honestly 'Slow Build' Isn't the Half of It, I Honestly Don't Know What I'm Doing Here, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reasons Why I Should Not Play Fire Emblem, Sex, Slow Build, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:10:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 158,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7623532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iturbide/pseuds/Iturbide
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They welcomed the tactician with open arms.  He had never known such kindness before.  And while his reasons for joining them might have been purely selfish at first, in time they became the family he'd never had.  So when darkness threatened, what choice did he have but to face his fears and fight his demons?</p><p>A pity his demons conquered him. </p><p>Spanning the full history of Lucina's timeline and the course of the game, this story charts the events that led to the end of one world and the salvation of another.  </p><p>== LATEST CHAPTER SUMMARY == </p><p>The aftermath of the ball brings with it mixed blessings and curses: while the deepening warmth and affection between Robin and the royal family puts them all at risk should they be discovered, of equal concern are the nobles who continue to threaten the dream of peace and equality in the halidom.  But as the mounting pressures of their duties threaten to break them, Chrom finally gains the upper hand, and makes some very special arrangements...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fate's Course

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably a bad idea. 
> 
> I claim no ownership over Fire Emblem: Awakening. All character interpretations are based on personal headcanons. Not all chapters will have sensitive material included, so each one will have clear warnings for specific content. 
> 
> This story is a guilty pleasure. After falling in love during my first playthrough, I had to go back and go through it again to get all the supports. And in the process, I started to wonder about some things: what was the Avatar's life like before meeting Chrom? what was Lucina's world like before everything went so wrong? the Avatar would never have lost their memory in Lucina's world -- how would that affect their actions? And things spiraled out of control from there. 
> 
> Although this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!
> 
> A lot of world-building has gone into this piece, and I hope you enjoy it, strange as it is.

###### 

Warnings: Violence, implied death

He’d been careless.

As Robin stood over the crackling body of a Plegian rogue, listening to the screams of the townspeople and the roars of the bandits outside, he could only curse himself. If he’d just thought about what he was doing, then all of this could have been avoided. 

But he hadn’t. He’d grown complacent. And now that they were here, his odds of escape were minimal at best. 

Gripping his Thunder tome to still his shaking hands, Robin turned to the few men and women huddled under a nearby table. “Stay inside,” he ordered. “Lock the door. It’ll be over soon.”

One way or another, it would be over very soon. 

He did not wait to ensure they listened. There was no time for that. Rushing outside, he drew his hood up and scanned the once quiet hamlet. Smoke billowed skyward around the town square -- the market stalls there made an easy target for brigands, with goods and coin in equal measure all ripe for the taking. Odds were good that most of the band would still be there pillaging. 

Skirting through the narrow alleys between buildings, he swallowed back the fear burning in his throat. The shouts grew louder, the smoke thicker, and he forced the rising panic down out of his mind. Panic led to injury, and injury led to capture. No need to turn his mistake into a tragedy. 

There. 

The square was mostly empty, but for the bandits and their captives. A brute with an axe menaced an aging woman as she struggled and begged for mercy. Not a word this lot lived by. The man laughed and lifted his weapon as the woman screamed--

The Thunder spell arced out of the alley, striking the brigand square in the back and staggering him. The woman did not waste time wondering. By the time the man regained his feet, she had fled. 

“There!”

A pity he couldn’t follow suit. 

No need for secrecy anymore. The brute dropped to the ground as the second spell struck him in the chest, and Robin wasted no time wondering if the man had survived. Racing from the alley for the cover of the abandoned stalls, he sized up the enemy forces as he ducked behind a capsized cart. Two swordsmen, another axe wielder, and a mage. All in close quarters. 

They were moving in. Surrounding him. Deep breath. 

Robin lunged for the next cart an instant before his cover burst into a shower of splintered wood. Returning another bolt without bothering to see if it struck its mark, he turned his sights on the main road leading out of town. If he could make it there, he had a chance. 

Breaking from cover, he loosed another spell, striking one swordsman in the chest -- but the other was quicker still, blocking the way toward freedom. He turned back, only to find the mage a mere pace behind, whipping the wind into a frenzy with his chant. The swordsman he’d managed to stagger had regained his senses, edging closer as Robin tried to find a way out. 

He found nothing. 

He stepped back, and his heel met empty air. The edge of the river. Deep, but not murky enough to hide in. 

They closed in around him. No escape. He couldn’t breathe, his heart lodged in his throat, its pounding nearly deafening--

“Well, well. So this is where he’s been hidin’ after all,” one of them chuckled. 

“How much d’ya think he’s worth?” another sneered. 

“A king’s ransom,” the mage replied. “But only alive.”

Robin found himself wondering if he was worth as much as a beloved king or a reviled one as a brute tested his axe. “’Alive,’ eh? Don’ mean we can’t rough ‘im up. Make it easier t’ get ‘im back, that’s fer sure…”

Robin steeled himself, fingers tensing on his tome. He couldn’t hope to beat so many. But surrender was unacceptable. He’d _die_ before he gave himself up--

Hoofbeats on cobbled stones. Approaching fast. 

A silver lance flashed overhead as the brigands turned. Robin lunged aside, narrowly avoiding the blade as it cut down one of the swordsmen. 

Well, that was a stroke of luck. For good or ill, he could not say, but--

“Need a hand?”

A gloved hand reached out to him. Robin looked up and felt his blood run cold. 

The prince of Ylisse was looking down at him. 

Bad luck. Very bad luck. 

No. Stay calm. One crisis at a time 

“Thank you,” he managed, accepting the offered hand. As the prince pulled him to his feet, Robin glanced at the knight holding the bandits at bay. Still too many for one man, especially with the mage retreating out of easy reach behind the other rogues. “Forgive my rudeness, but introductions will have to wait -- sir swordsman, could you dispatch that mage?”

Sir swordsman. Gods, if their lives weren’t at risk he would be mortified. Giving orders to a prince, he must be mad--

“Right.”

Just like that. No questions, no reservations, no _who do you think you are_ \-- he raised his sword and moved to engage. 

“Sir knight, behind you!” The man turned his horse, narrowly avoiding a heavy axe blow. A poor match. Better to press their advantages. “The swordsman, on your right--”

“Who are you to give orders!?”

That was more what he’d been expecting. 

“Now’s not the time, Frederick!” the prince shouted, bracing himself against the mage’s wind spell. The knight scowled, but complied without further complaint. 

“Chrom!”

The trembling cry made Robin's heart sink. He turned to see a young woman clutching a staff, backing frantically away from the brute menacing her with an axe. Of course. Of course the princess of Ylisse would be here. Why _wouldn’t_ she be here? 

Leaping forward, Robin loosed another Thunder spell, striking the brigand in the shoulder. Not enough to stun him, but at least enough to skew his aim, the axe blade crashing harmlessly into the cobbled street. The rogue whipped around with surprising speed, drawing his weapon up as Robin scrambled backward--

Not fast enough. The blade’s arc tore across his chest. Not a fatal wound, but deep. And painful. Robin stumbled, fumbling with his tome as the brute lumbered closer, raising the axe high over his head--

The man stiffened, the weapon dropping from his hand to the street. And then he fell, crashing to the ground with the prince’s sword in his back.

Robin breathed a short sigh. That, at least, seemed a lucky turn. 

“Hey, are you alright?”

He turned toward the voice and mustered up a smile for the princess’ benefit. “I’ll be fine--”

“Oh, no, you don’t.” 

“Uhm.” Her fierce pout was quite surprising. Glancing around the square to be sure no more Plegian troops had joined the battle, he drew a breath to ask what the problem was--

A stinging pain prickled through the cut on his chest. Biting back his discomfort (and an instinctive urge to protest that he was fine, really), Robin watched as the young woman guided the soft blue-green glow from her staff to his wound. 

“…thank you,” he murmured as she rocked back on her heels. She clearly had a gift for the healing arts: in spite of the initial pain, the wound seemed entirely mended. 

“It’s the least I could do,” she replied. “If you hadn’t been there, who knows what might’ve happened?”

As much as he might have wanted to, Robin did not list any of the various outcomes that might have stemmed from his absence. Really, the only important one in his mind was that _all this might have been avoided if I hadn’t been here today._ They didn’t need to know that. 

“You fight well.”

Robin jumped as the prince patted his shoulder. High praise, from such a warrior. “T-thank you, sir swordsman,” he mumbled. 

“No need for formalities -- call me Chrom,” the prince corrected. “Sir knight there is Frederick,” he continued, tilting his head toward the heavily armored cavalier. “And the delicate one here is my little sister, Lissa.”

“Hey!” she protested, stamping her foot on the cobbles. “I am _not_ delicate!”

She could have fooled him. 

“A pleasure. My name is Robin,” he said, offering a low bow. 

“Robin?” Chrom repeated, glancing toward his sister, who shrugged in reply. “Is that foreign?”

Oh, gods, it would be something as simple as a name that turned his fortune.

“No matter.”

And as swiftly as the issue was raised, the prince let it go. Robin slowly released the breath that had lodged in his throat, attempting to discretely settle his nerves while moving to less dangerous matters. “I can’t thank you enough for your help. They say bravery and longevity are often at odds, and if you hadn’t arrived I fear I would not have been long for this world.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Chrom chuckled. “And we should be thanking you. Have you studied tactics? Your advice made this engagement a much simpler affair than we’d expected.”

“Suspiciously so,” Frederick remarked, moving to stand at attention between the prince and princess. “Almost as though it were planned.”

“Please, Frederick,” Chrom sighed. “How could they have known the Shepherds would be here?”

“I can’t claim to know that,” the knight replied. “Perhaps we should ask Robin.”

Gods, if he’d known what was going to happen today, he never would have stopped in Southtown. But before he could protest, the princess elbowed the knight. Not terribly effectively, but the gesture was appreciated. “Oh, leave him alone, Frederick.”

“You’ll have to forgive him,” Chrom chuckled. “Frederick the Wary is nothing if not vigilant.”

“It is my duty, milord,” the knight huffed. “Gods forbid _one_ of us keep an appropriate level of caution.”

Robin understood that sentiment. He had to respect the man for his dedication. 

“Even so, this town might have suffered a far worse fate if you hadn’t been here. The halidom thanks you for your assistance.” Having the prince bow to him felt deeply unnerving, and Robin clutched his tome slightly tighter to hide that rising discomfort. 

“Oh, no, really -- you’re the ones who saved me,” he protested. “If there’s anything I can do to thank you…”

“There’s no need,” Chrom insisted. “It’s our duty as Shepherds, after all.”

It struck him lightning-fast. “Do…w-would you possibly have need of another Shepherd?”

Frederick’s scowl deepened even as the princess’ eyes lit up. “We’re always looking for new recruits, right, Chrom?”

“We know nothing about this man, who he is or where he came from,” Frederick snapped. “You can’t possibly--”

“He clearly knows his way around the battlefield,” the prince said, cutting across the bickering. “And if his advice today was any indication, he has a knack for tactics. We could use a tactician -- but more important, he risked his life to save these townsfolk. My heart says that’s enough reason to have him join us.”

“And what of your mind, milord?” the knight demanded. “Will you not heed its counsel, as well?”

“Peace, Frederick.” The prince held up his hand, and the cavalier fell grudgingly silent. “The Shepherds would be lucky to have you.” Chrom offered his hand, and Robin did not hesitate to accept it.

“It would be my honor,” he said. A smile crept unbidden onto his face as the great weight on his shoulders eased. Fortune had finally graced him with her favor, it seemed--

The smile the prince returned stopped Robin’s heart. 

“The honor is ours,” he replied. Sincerely. 

As the Shepherds turned to speak with the townsfolk that had come creeping from their homes, Robin marveled at the trap he’d stumbled into. Yes, he’d found the safety and protection he’d been seeking -- but at what price, if he lost his heart?


	2. Omens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still grappling with the implications of his new status as a Shepherd, Robin finds himself wholly unprepared to deal with the cataclysm that devastates the area -- or with the new arrivals that join the band in their march.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: Language**
> 
> This is not the most exciting chapter, but it was fun to write regardless. Playing with character interactions is a joy for me, and Sully is forever a delight, so it was nice getting to bring her in.
> 
> Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

They did not stay in Southtown, much to the princess’ dismay. In Robin’s opinion, it was likely for the best, given all that had transpired. Instead, the Shepherds set their sights on the halidom’s capital -- and he joined them, because strange as it still seemed, _he_ was a Shepherd, himself. 

Although Chrom insisted that Ylisstol was not far, night still fell well before they arrived. So while Lissa sulked about, swatting at the late summer bugs swarming her buttercup-yellow dress, the rest of them set to work making camp. In short order, a fire burned away the evening chill, and the savory aroma of roasting meat filled the air. 

Robin wasn’t entirely sure just how Chrom had brought down a bear. He’d learned long ago to avoid them at all costs if he didn’t want to spend two nights stuck up a tree. But he was not one to pass up a meal: while the Shepherds bantered on about the merits of their supper, Robin wasted no time in eating as much as he could manage. Not his favorite meat, to be sure, but he was hardly picky when it came to food. 

“So where are you from?”

Robin glanced up from his skewer to find all eyes on him. Oh, gods. Swallowing and wiping his mouth on the edge of his sleeve, he tried to find the safest answer to that deceptively simple question. “I came to Ylisse from Regna Ferox,” he said. 

“Like no Feroxi I’ve ever seen,” Frederick remarked. 

“My parents were not native to Ferox,” Robin explained, worrying the stick in his hand. “I’m afraid I never did benefit much from the Feroxi way of life -- I never had the physical strength to keep up.”

“But you know how to use a sword?” Chrom asked, gesturing to the weapon sitting close by Robin’s side. 

“Yes. I’m not terribly proficient,” he confessed, ruffling his pale hair sheepishly, “but I’m capable enough to get by. You don’t see many mages among bandits on the road, after all. I’m more comfortable with a tome than a blade.”

“Feroxis aren’t terribly keen on magic, either,” Frederick pressed. 

“My mother taught me,” Robin murmured, touching the tome in his coat. “She saw that I shared her gift, and she trained me to use it. It feels right, when I cast. It’s easy.”

“Like me,” Lissa said. “Staves just feel right when I hold them, and it’s so easy to make them work. Chrom would just hit people with them.”

“Give me a sword any day,” the prince muttered. “You can’t even leave a bruise with that stick of yours.”

“You might be strong, but all that muscle made you thick in the head.” The princess stuck her tongue out at her brother, who rolled his eyes rather than reply.

“So what brings you to Ylisse?” Frederick asked, attempting to turn the conversation back from bickering. 

“I’ve been looking for a place to call home,” Robin shrugged. “Regna Ferox has its charms, but it’s not the place for me. I was hoping that Ylisse might be.”

“Well, the halidom is happy to have you.” Chrom smiled, and Robin turned back to his skewer, hoping the flickering light from the fire hid his flustered blush. He somehow doubted that the prince knew just how charming he could be without trying. 

The conversation turned to other matters, much to his relief, and Robin listened in silence as the Shepherds discussed the recent attacks throughout Ylisse by small Plegian bands. Tensions between the nations were on the rise again, apparently -- the untimely attack on Southtown may have been more luck than design by the Plegians. 

Not that it changed the danger. 

More troubling still was the fact that the Plegian king endorsed such skirmishes. The last war between the two nations had nearly ruined them both. Why would anyone seek out such destruction?

They asked him no more questions that evening, for which he was grateful. As the fire began to die, the Shepherds made themselves comfortable (or as comfortable as they could, with only the ground as their beds -- Lissa seemed particularly grumpy about that fact, and complained until she finally dozed off). Robin settled, pillowing his arms behind his head, and stared up at the stars visible through the trees. Sleep would come in time. And he had things to ponder until it finally did.

\---

He didn’t recall drifting off. Robin only knew that, quite suddenly, he was wide awake, and something was very wrong.

He couldn’t quite put his finger on what. Perhaps it was the silence. No bird calls, no insects, no sounds of any life within the woods around them. He strained to hear something, _anything_ , moving in the darkness…

…and all he heard was the prince stirring from sleep nearby. And then the princess. They spoke for a moment in hushed voices that he could not quite make out, and then their footsteps faded into the distance, leaving only that unnerving silence once again. 

Was it safe for the two of them to go off alone? Despite only knowing him for a few hours, he had a feeling Frederick would say, emphatically, no. He was likely right about that. But he didn’t relish the idea of waking the knight, either. 

Regardless. Opening his eyes, Robin looked up at the sky through the shadowed branches. The stars still shone overhead, and he instinctively picked out a few recognizable constellations. Still far from morning. A quick glance around the campsite only confirmed that Chrom and Lissa had already moved out of sight. 

He was not going to enjoy this. 

“Sir Frederick?” he called, taking to his feet and securing his sword at his side. No response from the knight. “Sir Frederick--”

The man scrambled to his feet in an instant, looking around the clearing in a panic. “Where are the prince and princess?” he demanded.

“That’s what I was waking you up to tell you,” Robin explained patiently. “It looks like they’ve wandered off.”

“And you didn’t follow them!?” 

“Well, I imagine that if I’d followed them without informing you first, you would have worried more when you woke alone,” Robin replied in a wry monotone. Not to mention that Frederick would have accused him of some treachery had he gone off on his own. “As best I can tell, they went that way.” He gestured in the direction he’d heard their footsteps retreat, moving to follow the darkened path through the forest. “They may not be far, so if we hurry--”

The earth trembled beneath his feet. 

Robin staggered into a nearby tree as Frederick’s horse shrieked behind him. “What was that?” Frederick called. 

“I don’t know.” Nothing good, though.

The ground did not still. A low rumbling broke the silence, deep enough to shake his bones. Birds screeched as they exploded from the trees, and somewhere in the distance he could hear animals racing through the undergrowth. All moving away from where Lissa and Chrom had gone. 

The sky brightened. 

It couldn’t be sunrise. It was too sudden, and the constellations he’d seen were only visible well before dawn at this time of year. There was no way it…

He looked up to see fire through the trees. 

“Sir Frederick?” he called. 

The knight behind him cursed. Robin turned to see him fighting to bring his mount under control. Hurrying back, he touched the horse’s nose as Frederick struggled with the reins, gently stroking the velvet skin visible around the armor. “You’ll be safe,” he promised, his voice soft in spite of his own rising panic. “Calm down. Calm down. I know it’s frightening, but you’ll be alright. Just calm down.”

The horse continued to fret for a moment as Robin spoke, jerking its head in a desperate bid to free itself. And then it began to settle, its nervous stamping subsiding as it nudged his cheek with its nose. “That’s right,” Robin murmured. “That’s good. That’s--”

He’d stopped paying attention to Frederick. Apparently the knight had taken advantage of his distraction to mount his quieted horse. As it turned in the direction of the bright glow beyond the trees, Frederick grabbed Robin’s arm and pulled him up behind the saddle. 

“Thank you,” he managed as they plunged into the woods. 

“Better to have you here than wonder what trouble you’re causing elsewhere,” the knight muttered. 

Well, at least he was honest. 

The trees thinned as they neared the top of a rise overlooking the forest. Or what had once been a forest. Now a sea of flames stretched as far as the eye could see, fiery orbs bright as suns arcing across the burning sky. Even here, the heat was stifling, and Robin pressed his sleeve over his nose and mouth to keep the smoke at bay. 

“Milord! Milady!”

Frederick reined the horse in, and Robin slid to the ground as the prince and princess hurried over. “Are you hurt?” Frederick asked. In the light of the flames below, neither looked injured, merely shaken -- but flickering firelight could be deceptive.

“What happened here?” Robin murmured, staring out at the blaze. Forest fires were not uncommon, but the fireballs the size of houses were something he had only read about in stories. 

“The earth opened up,” Chrom replied. 

“There was fire everywhere,” Lissa added, hovering close to her brother’s side.

“But you’re not injured?” The prince and princess shook their heads. “Thank the gods,” Frederick sighed. 

“It might be wise to save our gratitude for _after_ we’re away from the fire,” Robin pointed out. Frederick cast a sour look in his direction, but apparently could find no fault in his logic. Turning his mount, the knight led the way back through the yet untouched trees. Chrom and Lissa followed close behind; Robin looked out over the eerie scene for another moment, watching the wind blow dancing sparks away over the blaze, before turning to join them. 

“Captain Chrom!”

The Shepherds turned as a cavalier on a wild looking horse burst from the trees. “There you are! Gods, I’ve been lookin’ for you half the night.”

“Sully?” The prince moved to greet the rider as she (Robin hoped that was right, but it was hard to tell) dismounted, tugging the reins as the horse tossed its head. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, you lot were late getting back to the barracks, Maribelle threw a godsdamned fit about Lissa being in trouble, Sumia started pacing and kept falling on her face every few steps, and I just needed to get out of there. Figured I’d track you down and haul your asses back so everyone would calm the fuck down.”

“We really weren’t in any trouble--” 

“What the _fuck_ is all that out there, then?” the cavalier demanded, pointing a lance at the forest fire still raging behind them. 

“…unforeseen circumstances?” Robin offered. 

Sully glanced over the prince’s shoulder and swung the weapon to point at Robin, who held his hands up placatingly. “And who the fuck is that?”

“This is Robin, our new tactician,” the prince explained, pushing the cavalier’s spear aside. “We ran into some trouble with Plegian bandits in Southtown, and he helped us take care of it.”

“Yeah!” Lissa agreed, grabbing Robin’s arm and pulling him closer. “So please don’t stab him.” The tactician nodded in firm agreement. 

Chrom patted Robin’s shoulder reassuringly. “She’s like that with everyone new. Don’t take it personally.”

That didn’t make him feel better.

“Please, wait, milady!”

Everyone turned as a tall man emerged from the trees. “Oh, gods, _you’re_ still here?” Sully groaned. 

“You know him?” Chrom asked. 

“He’s just some ruffled buffoon that started following me around spouting nonsense.” Sully huffed. “Do I need to kick you again to make you take the hint!?”

“P-please, there’s no need,” the man said. “I only…” 

Robin watched as the stranger scanned the group, and saw the instant his eye fell on Lissa. “And who might this fair flower be?” Apparently forgetting Sully entirely (much to the cavalier’s relief), the man approached the princess and offered a bow so deep the tactician swore he bent over double. 

Lissa edged behind Robin, who agreeably put himself between her and the ruffled buffoon, as Sully called him. An apt moniker, given the flamboyant cravat and filigreed armor. The tactician had no illusions about his physical capacity to protect anyone -- but he was tall enough to at least present an obstacle. 

“Show the proper respect, sir,” Frederick snapped. “You’re addressing the princess of Ylisse.”

“A princess?” 

The appraising look in the stranger’s eyes set Robin’s nerves on edge. Putting his arms out to make for a bigger blockade, the tactician shuffled around, keeping the princess behind him even as the man tried to circle him. “Please, milady, do pardon my manners. I am Virion, the archest of archers, and it would be my honor -- nay, my _privilege_ \-- to accompany you--”

Apparently Robin was not the only one with misgivings about the strange archer. Frederick, setting aside his distrust of the newly inducted tactician, pulled Virion away with a firm hand on his shoulder. “We’ll hear all you have to say when we arrive at the capital.”

Robin doubted any of them would be sleeping any time soon, after the events of the night. The earth splitting open, flames devouring the forest, all with no explanation, no _reason_ …the smell of smoke still stung his nose, and the light followed them deep into the woods. But soon enough, the roar of the wildfires at their back faded to a drone, then a whisper drowned out by Virion’s overwrought declarations of love.


	3. Fortune's Favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the natural disasters behind them, the Shepherds prepare to meet the next challenge: a diplomatic mission to secure military aid from Ylisse's northern neighbor. Still uncertain of his role in the company, Robin starts getting to know his fellow troops, and begins to understand just what a colorful bunch they are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: Language**
> 
> Took a break in the middle of writing this chapter to play around with something later in the story. Strike while the iron's hot, right?
> 
> While this is also not the most exciting chapter, it was a lot of fun to write. Sully is a treasure and my day is made whenever I get to write her. Also, Miriel's vocabulary makes me so happy and even if I can't do it justice I love to try.
> 
> Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

They arrived in Ylisstol early the following morning. On Frederick’s orders, Sully marched Virion off to the Shepherds’ barracks for later questioning. Much to Robin’s surprise, the knight did not insist that the tactician go along. Perhaps he’d proven himself enough to warrant less suspicion -- but more likely it had to do with the warning look Chrom gave him. 

Robin had never had much opportunity to explore Ylisstol. He’d traveled through the outskirts on occasion, but only in the late evening or early morning when the crowds were sparse. In full daylight, the hustle and bustle of the city center was nearly overwhelming. 

“So this is Ylisstol,” he remarked, keeping close to the Shepherds as they navigated the streets. “I’ve never seen so many people…”

“It appears the capital was spared the chaos we encountered, thank the gods,” Frederick sighed. “I see no evidence of the great quake. It must have been limited to the forest.”

“Well, that’s a relief!” Lissa said. Truly, it seemed a blessing that such a crowded city was unaffected by the calamity that struck the woods not so far away. But the wind had been favorable, and the quake itself was minor, despite all appearances. 

A cry went up from the crowd. Robin touched the tome in his coat even as the Shepherds turned calmly toward the castle. It was only as the people around them parted that he finally understood.

The exalt. Flanked by soldiers and pegasus knights, she moved along the high street, greeting the citizens with a wave and a kind smile. He had seen a few paintings of her, in more recent years, but as she passed by he realized that they did her no justice. No artist could capture such grace or gentle compassion in a still frame. Robin wondered if he should bow, regardless of whether she would see or care for such a gesture. 

“Is it safe for her to walk the streets like this?” the tactician asked quietly as the procession passed out of sight. Surely with the Plegians’ recent aggressions, there would be concerns for her wellbeing…

“The exalt is a symbol of peace -- Ylisse’s most prized quality,” Frederick replied, a hint of pride in his voice. “A millennium ago, at the dawn of our age, the fell dragon tried to destroy the world. But the first exalt joined forces with the divine dragon and laid the beast low. Lady Emmeryn reminds us all of the peace we fought for then.”

“With Plegia poking at our borders, the people need her,” Chrom added, ushering the group on toward the castle at the city’s center. “She’s a calming presence, when some might otherwise call for war.”

“The Ylissean people are indeed lucky to have her,” Robin murmured, rubbing the back of his gloved hand. 

“She’s also the best big sister anyone could ask for,” Lissa giggled. The tactician couldn’t imagine. He’d heard people speak of the exalt, but only her public presence, and experiencing that first-hand had been humbling. What might she be like in private? Was there a side of her that only her family knew?

Chrom’s voice stirred Robin from his thoughts. “It looks like Emm is returning to the palace. Would you like to meet her?”

The tactician didn’t know what to say. The idea of meeting the exalt personally, rather than simply seeing her on the street, was frankly intimidating. But it would be suspicious if he said such a thing, wouldn’t it? And…a part of him _did_ want to meet her. If only to assuage his own anxieties. 

Not that it mattered what he wanted, it seemed. Without waiting for an answer, the prince guided them through the palace gates in the wake of the exalt’s procession. Robin had never dared to approach a palace before. Going inside one felt like walking into a trap. Unfamiliar. Enclosed. Many places to hide, perhaps, but more guards than any man could escape. 

The tactician took a deep breath, forcing the rising panic down in his mind. He had no reason to distrust the Shepherds’ intentions. Calm down. 

He paused as they entered the throne room, his fears overwhelmed by a rush of awe. Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, held aloft by stone pillars bearing Ylissean banners. Beyond the supports, arched windows sent the morning sun spilling across the gleaming stone floor. It reminded him strongly of a church dedicated to Naga, bright and open, designed to reflect even the smallest light a hundredfold. 

It took him far too long to realize that the prince was looking back and gesturing for him. Flustered, Robin hurried to join the others, keeping his gaze on the ornate rug beneath their feet and his hands folded respectfully before him. 

“Chrom! Lissa! Welcome home.” The tactician glanced up to see the exalt embracing her siblings and quickly turned his attention back to the floor. “Oh, and good day, Frederick. How fared you all?”

“Well, we shouldn’t have any bandit problems for a while,” Chrom chuckled. 

“Wonderful,” Emmeryn sighed, relief clear in her soft voice. “And our people?”

“Safe as they can be, Emm. But we still need to watch the borders,” the prince cautioned. “The brigands crossed over from Plegia.”

“Forgive me, milord.” Robin glanced up at the unfamiliar voice, watching as a knight flanking the exalt bowed low. “My pegasus knights should have intercepted them.”

“No, Phila,” Chrom insisted. “Your duty was here, with the exalt.”

“And besides, we had plenty of help!” Lissa chimed in. 

“Ah, you speak of your new companion here?”

The tactician shrank as all eyes turned to him, keeping his gaze fixed on the toes of his boots -- but he jumped as a hand gripped his shoulder. “This is Robin,” the prince said. “He fought bravely with us against the brigands. I’ve decided to make him a Shepherd.”

“It sounds as though Ylisse owes you a debt of gratitude, Robin.”

The tactician glanced up to find the exalt’s smile turned on him. “N-not at all, your highness,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his hand. Something about the warm trust in her eyes made him feel guilty. 

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but I must speak.”

Robin flinched as Frederick stepped forward. “We know nothing about this man, who he is or where he came from, aside from the vague stories he’s provided. We cannot rule out the possibility that he is a brigand himself, or even a Plegian spy.”

“Frederick!”

The warning tone of Chrom’s voice brought no relief to Robin. Hunching his shoulders to make himself look as small as possible, the tactician fisted his hand in the sleeve of his coat, trying to force the panic back out of his mind--

“Yet you allowed him into the castle, Chrom. Does this man have your trust?” the exalt asked, her quiet voice cutting through Robin’s swirling mess of thoughts. 

“Yes. He risked his life for our people. That’s good enough for me.”

Robin looked up to see the prince smiling at him. That reassurance just made the sense of guilt worse.

“Well then, Robin…”

He shrank further as the exalt moved to stand before him. As small as he’d made himself, he had to look up to see her comforting smile. “It seems you’ve earned Chrom’s faith, and as such, you have mine as well.”

“I-I’m honored, Your Grace,” he murmured, bowing his head. 

“But thank you, Frederick, for your prudence. As always,” the exalt chuckled. “Chrom and Lissa are blessed to have so tireless a guardian. I do hope they remember to mention that from time to time…”

“They occasionally express something akin to gratitude, Your Grace,” the knight remarked as both prince and princess began to fidget. 

“I’m glad.” Turning back, she touched her brother’s shoulder. “Chrom, we were about to hold council on Plegia’s recent aggressions. I was hoping you could join us.”

“Of course,” the prince replied.

The tactician jumped as Lissa grabbed his arm. “I think that’s our cue, Robin! C’mon, there’s a place I want to show you.” 

Robin was glad to be out of the throne room, even if it meant being dragged by the princess. Outside the castle walls, even if they hadn’t left the palace ground, the suffocating weight of so much attention eased enough for him to breathe.

“Are you okay?” Lissa asked, slowing so that the tactician could walk alongside her. “I was worried you were going to faint back there.”

“I-it was just a bit overwhelming, that’s all,” Robin chuckled, ruffling his hair sheepishly. “I’ve never been in a castle before, or met a noble, let alone the ruler of a country.”

“…do you feel nervous around me or Chrom?” 

“You’re different.” Which was true. And he couldn’t exactly admit that he felt nervous around Chrom for very different reasons. 

“Why?” The buttons on her headband bounced as she tilted her head. She might not share her siblings’ presence, but she had a unique sort of charm that made him smile. 

“You don’t define yourself by your bloodline,” Robin said. “When your brother introduced you, it was as Chrom and Lissa, not as the prince and princess of Ylisse. You don’t insist on being treated as royalty. As a matter of diplomacy, your sister must be addressed with the respect that her position as exalt demands. Her guards would enforce it, even if she wouldn’t -- much like Frederick spoke out against that archer last night for his flirting. It’s intimidating, to be in the presence of royalty, having to watch what you say, and how it’s said-- but you don’t present yourselves that way. I don’t have to worry about the words I use or the way I speak with you, so I don’t have to stress about causing inadvertent offense.”

He realized that Lissa was staring at him and felt a wave of panic wash over him again. “W-what?”

“I think you said more in the last two minutes than you have in the last two _days._ ”

Robin felt heat rise in his cheeks as he ruffled his hair. “I-I’m sorry if I bored you--”

“No!” Lissa bounced ahead, turning toward him with a brilliant smile on her face. “You really know a lot, don’t you?”

“…I read a lot,” he mumbled.

“Is that how you learned about tactics?” she asked, falling into step with him again. 

“In part.”

“What’s the other part?”

“Experience.”

“Sooo…you’ve been in a lot of battles?”

“Enough.”

“Awwww, come on, don’t go all quiet again! I liked you better when you talked,” she pouted. 

Robin smiled, clasping his hands behind his back. “So where are you taking me?”

“Maybe I don’t want to take you now.” The tactician shrugged, which only seemed to infuriate the princess, who stomped her foot on the cobbled walk. “Don’t just shrug at me! I know you want to go!”

“How can I know that if I don’t know where we’re going?” he asked. Lissa frowned, crossing her arms over her chest. “I’d be quite content to just wander the grounds, if we don’t have a goal in mind--”

“Oh, _fine,_ ” she sighed. “But you’d better talk more when we get there.”

“I’ll try,” Robin conceded. The princess huffed, but made no further protests as she headed toward a long, low building nestled against the castle wall. As she flung the doors open, the tactician realized that they’d arrived at the barracks: racks of weapons and armor lined the walls, and as he moved inside he saw tables full of maps, tomes, and ledgers tucked among haphazardly stacked supplies.

“Here we are!” Lissa announced, Robin’s wonder bringing her cheer back in force. “The Shepherds’ garrison. Go on, make yourself at home.”

As he followed the princess through the cluttered hall, he realized they were not alone. A muscular fighter and a silver-haired knight looked up as they approached; the tactician moved a few steps closer to Lissa, trying to settle his nerves as they stared at the newcomer in their midst--

A shrill cry caught everyone’s attention. Robin’s hand instinctively went for the tome in his coat as a fair woman with great blonde curls ran across the room toward them. “Lissa, my treasure! Are you alright? I’ve been on pins and needles!”

The princess grinned. “Oh, hey, Maribelle--”

“’Oh, hey’ yourself!” the blonde snapped, throwing her arms around Lissa’s shoulders. “I’ve sprouted _fourteen grey hairs_ fretting over you!”

“Aw, you worry too much,” the princess laughed, patting Maribelle’s back. “I can handle a battle or two…although I could do without the bugs and the bear barbecue,” she muttered, and Robin stifled a laugh behind his hand.

“Hey, squirt!” the fighter laughed, ruffling Lissa’s pigtails and ignoring her noises of protest. “Where’s Chrom? I bet he had a rough time out there without ol’ Teach an’ his trusty axe.”

“Oh, so you’re ‘Teach’ now, is that it, Vaike?” the princess muttered, swatting at his hands. “And here I thought people were just _born_ lacking wits. It can be taught?”

“Ha! Never doubt the Vaike!” The fighter puffed his chest out proudly, and Robin and Lissa both fought a losing battle against laughter as Vaike’s smug grin turned into a doubtful frown. “Wait, was that an insult?”

“B-beg pardon…” Everyone turned as the knight spoke up, twisting a lock of silver hair around her finger. “Do you know when we might see the captain?”

“Poor Sumia,” Maribelle sighed, touching her cheek with one gloved hand. “She’s simply been _beside_ herself with concern. Her eyes were scanning the horizon all day during training...she might have earned fewer bruises fighting blindfolded.” The knight blushed and turned her attention to the stone floor.

“Aw, Sumia.” The princess patted the woman’s arm reassuringly. “That’s so sweet of you to worry about Chrom!” Robin could tell from the color in her cheeks that there was more than simple concern behind her question. 

“Worry? Well, I…he’s our captain and our prince -- of course I’d worry!” No one in the room seemed to believe that excuse. But the tactician certainly couldn’t fault her for trying -- he doubted he would cover much better if confronted directly--

“So who’s the stranger?”

Robin jumped as Lissa stuck her tongue out at the fighter. “No one’s stranger than you, Vaike.” In the next instant her smile returned, and she stepped aside to present the fidgeting tactician to the rest of the assembled Shepherds. “But allow me to introduce Robin! He just joined the Shepherds. Chrom’s made him our new tactician. You should see the tricks he’s got up his sleeve.” 

That seemed a bit excessive, since he’d only guided them through one battle. Perhaps he really had said too much on their way here.

“Oh, yeah?” The fighter looked unimpressed. “Can he do this?” Sucking in a deep gulp of air, Vaike released a very long, very loud belch. 

Well, Robin had to admit that it was quite a feat, shaking dust from the rafters with a burp. “I’m sure I have much to learn in the…belching arts, ‘Teach,’” he remarked wryly. “In any case, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintances," the tactician added, offering a slight bow to each of the Shepherds in turn. 

Maribelle made a disgusted noise, glaring fiercely at the fighter. “Vaike! That was abhorrent! Must you baseborn oafs pollute even the _air_ with your buffoonery? And you, Robin!” The tactician jumped back as she brandished a pink parasol in his direction. “Don’t encourage him! I’d hoped you were cut from finer cloth,” she huffed, talking over his halfhearted attempt to defend himself. 

“Don’t take it to heart, Robin,” Sumia whispered as the blonde stormed away. “Maribelle warms to people slowly.”

“Or burns too quickly,” Lissa giggled. “But yeah, just give her time.” 

Now, why did that sound familiar? Wasn’t that what he’d been told about Sully, too? Just how many of the Shepherds displayed _that_ particular quirk? 

The door behind them swung open. Robin turned with the rest of the Shepherds to see Chrom making his way toward the group. “Ah, Captain! You’ve returned!” The tactician glanced at Sumia as she moved to greet the prince, her blush only deepening as she continued to speak. “I was-- I mean, _we_ were so--”

“Sumia! Are you alright?”

Robin didn’t see exactly what happened. One moment she was hurrying across the room, the next she was sprawled out on the floor. Before anyone could move to help her, though, she picked herself up, dusting off her armor and trying to hide her embarrassment behind her hair. “Those boots of yours again?” Chrom asked. 

“No!” she cried. “I-I mean, yes! I mean…” She sighed, tugging on the hair framing her face. 

Chrom watched her for a moment, but when she showed no signs of falling again, he turned to the group at large. “All right, listen up: in the morning, we’ll be marching to Regna Ferox.”

“T-that's Ylisse's northern neighbor, yes? Is it true that the kingdom is inhabited by barbarians?” Sumia ventured meekly.

The prince shook his head. “Warriors are what they are, and we’ll need their strength if these skirmishes with Plegian bandits turn into something more. Typically, the exalt would request such aid in person, but given their recent aggressions…well, the people might worry should she suddenly leave the capital. So the task has been passed to us.”

A wise decision, Robin had to admit. If the exalt were to leave Ylisstol, the more fearful citizens might well believe that the capital had been abandoned, and the most vocal could easily stir the rest of the masses into a frenzy. The capital remained peaceful with its ruler there to guide and reassure the people. Best not to disrupt that. 

“Now, this mission is strictly voluntary,” Chrom continued. “So if, for any--”

A chorus of shouts echoed through the hall as everyone present offered their services for the expedition -- including, the tactician noticed with great surprise, a man in an overlarge suit of armor that he had somehow missed in all of the prior discussion. Had he always been there?

Only one voice in the crowd sounded the least bit uncertain. “Yes, Sumia?” Chrom prompted as the knight fretted with her hair. 

“It’s just that…I’m not sure I’m quite ready for a proper mission…just yet,” she mumbled. “I’d…probably just get in the way.”

“Well, you could stay behind the main group, and if a battle is met, just watch and learn?” he offered. “Your choice, of course. But some lessons can only be learned on the battlefield.”

Those words rang painfully true to Robin. He stilled the fingers rubbing the back of his hand as the knight looked shyly toward the prince. “W-well, if you think it’s wise, Captain.”

“Just stay by me and you’ll be fine,” Chrom said, patting her shoulder. The tactician felt warmth rise into his cheeks when Chrom smiled -- though thankfully Sumia’s blush and flustered response attracted far more attention. 

“And you, Robin?”

He looked up in surprise as the prince turned to him. “Y-yes?”

“Are you coming along?”

He hadn’t realized that staying behind was an option for him. A sardonic voice in the back of his head insisted that Frederick would drag him along to keep an eye on him, whether he volunteered or not. But he did know Ferox, likely better than many of the Shepherds…and he doubted he’d be allowed to stay long if he did nothing of worth. 

“It would be an honor,” he said, offering a deeper bow to the prince. 

“All right, enough of that,” Chrom laughed. “We’ll be following the Northroad to the border. At best, it will be a week’s march to Regna Ferox, and we’ve no time to waste. Prepare your things tonight; we leave at dawn tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

As the rest of the Shepherds scattered to ready their equipment, the tactician sat down at the nearest table, touching the tome in his coat with a gloved hand. He had nothing more to his name than the clothes he wore and the weapons he carried. As for being late…he doubted his jumbled thoughts would allow for much sleep. He would be ready, come dawn. All he had to do now was wait.

\--- 

Despite having a bed for the first time in months, Robin slept very little. He spent much of the night huddled in the dark, listening to the other Shepherds tossing and turning in their own bunks, and the few times he did manage a fitful drowse some unfamiliar noise would startle him right back to waking again.

He was the first man up and ready for the march come dawn. In total, their diplomatic procession totaled eight soldiers: the prince and princess, with their great knight warden; Sumia, still fretting endlessly about her battle worth; Vaike, boasting loudly about his own; Sully, still doggedly pursued by the archer Virion; and himself, quietly keeping to the rear. 

As they set off along the Northroad, they gained a ninth member in a second mounted cavalier, riding furiously to catch up with them. From what the tactician gathered, Vaike had been tasked with spreading the word about the Ferox mission, and had been lax in that duty. Which apparently came as a surprise to no one, given their reactions. 

The rest of the day’s march was pleasantly uneventful. He listened to their bantering, their bickering, their conversations, their quarrels, speaking little and taking care to stay out of the way. Watching them together, he started getting to know them: their personalities, their habits, their quirks. It seemed strange, thinking that he might be guiding these people through the heat of battle…but the more he knew, the better prepared he would be. 

A tenth member joined them after they stopped for the night, as their resident fighter went into an uproar about a missing weapon. The spectacled mage arrived to a scattering of greetings from the other Shepherds, depositing an axe by the fire (much to Vaike’s relief) before making herself at home. While he was not close enough to hear the whole of the exchange, he managed to suss out that she’d stumbled across the weapon about mile from their campsite. It was a very lucky thing they hadn’t run into trouble on the way. 

Supper was a simple venison stew (much to both Frederick’s and Lissa’s obvious relief). Robin waited for the other Shepherds to help themselves before collecting his own share, moving out of the ring of firelight--

“Hey, newbie!”

The tactician jumped, turning to see Sully waving at him. “Where d’ya think you’re going? Siddown,” she insisted, patting the ground beside her. 

Robin hesitated. It would be rude to refuse, but more than likely the questions would start as soon as he joined them, and he could do without that level of interrogation--

“Hey, you deaf?” the cavalier called again. “Get yer ass over here before I drag ya.”

Well, that settled that. 

The tactician tentatively made his way over, settling between Sully and the newly arrived mage. “So wha’d you say your name was?” the cavalier asked. 

“Robin,” he replied. 

“Robin, huh? Funny name.” He shrugged, but did not rise to the jab. “The captain said you’re gonna be our tactician?”

“Yes.” He could feel their eyes on him and fought down his rising panic with a bite of stew. 

“He helped us rout a band of Plegian rogues in Southtown,” Chrom chimed in. “He knows his way around a fight -- what enemies pose the most danger, what weapon has an advantage over another…”

“Is that so. You been in a lot of fights?” Sully asked. 

“Enough,” Robin mumbled. 

“Uh-huh.” Apparently the cavalier was not so easily deterred. “You know how to use that sword of yours?”

“Well enough.” Her eyes narrowed as he took another hasty bite. 

“He can use magic, too!” Lissa piped up from across the fire. 

“Really.”

Robin glanced at the mage beside him, who adjusted her spectacles as she looked toward him. “It’s quite rare to meet a fellow tome-wielder -- aside from myself, only one of the Shepherds’ youngest fellows has shown any aptitude, and he is still undergoing rigorous training in the Ylisstol Academy. Where did you study your art?”

The tactician suddenly felt very poorly read. The woman’s speech hinted at a true academic -- his reading hobby couldn’t hold a candle to her level of learning. “I-I’ve never studied formally,” he admitted. “My mother taught me.”

“Really. I have heard of self-taught mages, but they are quite the rarity, and most often their true potential is squandered by their lack of education. How would you rate the potency of your magic on a scale of one to ten? Perhaps you would be willing to provide a demonstration, so that an unbiased observer can better quantify--”

“Easy, Miriel,” Chrom laughed. “He’s only been a Shepherd for a few days. Let him at least get settled before you turn him into a study.”

The woman sat back, adjusting her spectacles before opening a leather-bound book and scribbling something on its pages. Robin was rather afraid to ask what she was writing down.

“So are you going to be on the field with us?” Sumia asked. “That seems like a dangerous place for a tactician…”

“That’s the _only_ place for a tactician,” he replied. “Drafting battle plans beforehand is all fine and good, but no strategy survives the first five minutes of combat. From the sidelines, tactics can’t be relayed rapidly, which can cause unnecessary injuries or needlessly cost lives.”

“See? _This_ is why we need a tactician,” the prince said, looking to Frederick while gesturing to Robin. He had a feeling they were continuing a prior conversation, which did not bode well for his standing in the great knight’s esteem. 

“I still don’t see why we can’t just cut through anyone that gets in our way,” Vaike muttered, punching his open palm. 

“That would be a tremendously inefficient use of our resources,” Miriel sighed. “It’s unfeasible to imagine that the Shepherds could amass unlimited manpower, and the finite durability of most weaponry makes a brute force tactic too wasteful for practicality.”

“Lady, I don’t got a clue what just came out of your mouth,” the fighter grumbled. 

“She’s sayin’ you’re a brainless dolt,” Sully snorted. 

“Take that back!” Vaike shouted, pointing accusingly at the mage. 

“I made no such implications,” she replied coolly, adjusting her glasses, “so I refuse to retract my prior statement.”

“She said no,” Sully translated. 

The rest of the troop laughed as the conflict escalated to new and increasingly hilarious heights, and even Robin found it impossible not to smile. In spite of the troubles facing the nation, they could still laugh. He envied them that. 

The conversation settled soon enough. Robin quietly helped himself to another bowl of stew that polished off the cookpot, watching as other Shepherds one by one excused themselves and headed off to the tents set far back from the fire. As the flames died down to embers and Frederick rose to extinguish the last of the coals, Sully rose and stretched. “You turnin’ in, Robin?”

“I’m fine here,” he assured her, pulling his coat tight around himself. It had seen him through colder nights in the past--

“You know you’ve got a tent, right?”

He looked up, his own surprise mirrored in her face. “But I don’t--”

“They’re company supplies,” the cavalier chuckled. “We packed enough for everybody, newbie.” Gesturing for him to follow, she headed toward the ring of tents, patting the plain canvas of the closest one. “This one’s yours. Get some rest -- we head out early.”

“Thank you.” Sully grinned and offered a friendly salute as she headed for her own tent. The tactician moved carefully through the opening, half expecting someone to be inside already -- but aside from a few rolled blankets, it was entirely empty. 

In as long as Robin could remember, he’d never had more than his coat, his tome, and his sword to his name. Sitting among the blankets, the stars blocked not by trees or clouds but by a sturdy cover to keep out the elements…he wondered if perhaps his fortunes might finally be changing for the better. 

Well, only time would tell for certain.


	4. Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Plegian aggressions on the rise, the Shepherds seek aid from their northern neighbors -- but the welcome they receive is far colder than the snowy clime. Forced to engage, Robin gets his first taste of battle as a tactician...and realizes that the task may be far more difficult than anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: Mild Language, Violence**
> 
>   
>  Took a break near the end of writing this chapter to play around with a few things later in the story that desperately wanted out. Hopefully Chapter 5 will allow itself to be written a little more quickly.
> 
> Things pick up a little bit in this chapter. Also, action scenes are hard. But I did my best, and I had a lot of fun mixing game mechanics with some real-world physics.
> 
> Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

The weather proved fair on their march north to the border. Robin, at least, took the time to enjoy it: the climate in Ferox this time of year would not be so kind. 

It felt strange, traveling as a true member of a group rather than an incidental one. In the past, he had been able to avoid most questions simply because he was an outsider. Here, they expected answers. And rightly so. He was, after all, one of them. 

Thankfully, they did not ask much of him. After the first shared supper, the Shepherds seemed content to pry into personal matters of a much simpler nature: his favorite color, his preferred taste, what sorts of things pleased or bothered him. And many of those were polite inquiries -- he had already begun piecing together similar pictures for them.

By the fourth day, the air took on a distinct chill at odds with the green meadows and golden sunlight that marked their route. But the steady pace made the touch of cold refreshing, rather than disheartening, and they made good time through the morning. 

As the sun began its slow descent in the west, something strange appeared just off the beaten path. “Well, what do we have here?” he murmured, shielding his eyes from the sun. It looked like a white horse, wearing an ornate blue and silver saddle and bridle. No sign of a rider, though. That did not bode well. Had there been an attack, or--

“Hey, is that what I think it is?” Lissa asked. Moving through the tall grass, Robin realized that he’d been mistaken: it was not a simple horse, but one with wings that drooped listlessly at its sides. 

“It’s a pegasus, all right,” Chrom agreed. “I think it’s hurt. Let’s just have a look here…”

As he approached, the creature reared, kicking fiercely at the prince -- who wisely jumped back (and less wisely lay his hand on his sword hilt). “Whoa! Down, girl!”

Before the tactician could suggest that perhaps pulling a blade on a winged horse was not the best course of action, someone else spoke up. “Captain, one moment!”

Chrom and Robin both turned in time to see Sumia fall flat on the ground. The tactician had started to wonder exactly how often that happened. “Sumia! Are you alright? …those boots of yours again?” the prince asked as she picked herself up and dusted off her armor.

“No! I mean, yes! I mean…” The knight sighed, trying to scrub the blush from her cheeks. 

“Well, come no closer. This beast is crazed!” Chrom snapped, turning back to the winged horse that now stood with head and wings lowered, ready to attack should the prince approach again. 

“It’s okay, Captain,” the knight said, moving past him toward the pegasus. “I can handle this…”

As the prince opened his mouth to protest, Sumia reached out to the winged horse, her palms open and her voice soft as she approached. The animal tossed her head, drumming her hooves…

…but as the knight came close enough to touch her head, the pegasus settled, pulling in her wings and lifting her head to nuzzle Sumia’s cheek. 

“That’s incredible, Sumia!” Lissa said. Robin was certainly impressed. He’d not seen much from Sumia in their days of marching. She was friendly with the other Shepherds, had a penchant for flowers, and blushed anytime Chrom was in sight. He’d noticed her around the horses now and again, but she had no mount of her own, and he’d assumed that her duties had involved helping with their care -- rightly so, if she handled them so well. 

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Chrom agreed. 

“Oh, it’s…it’s nothing,” Sumia laughed, blushing bright pink. “Really! I just have a way with animals, I guess.”

“I should say so!” the prince chuckled. 

The knight turned away in a vain attempt to hide the deepening color in her cheeks “You all go on ahead. I’ll dress her wounds and catch up as soon as we’re able.”

“We can make time to wait for you,” Chrom insisted. 

“Thank you, Captain. But I can manage. Every moment is precious when Ylisse is in danger,” the knight replied, remarkable conviction banishing her blush as she turned back to the Shepherds. 

The prince smiled and nodded. “Right, then. Be safe, Sumia.”

“As you command, sir.” The knight saluted as the rest of the Shepherds resumed their march northward. Glancing back as they crested the next hill, Robin could just barely see her, the pegasus settled peacefully even as the knight examined her wings. 

While the others seemed to think the encounter was curious, even exciting, the tactician found it deeply troubling. Such winged horses were specially bred by the Ylissean guard for use by the pegasus knights. The equipment it bore implied that the one they’d encountered, and that Sumia had stayed with, was used by that very force -- making its lack of rider still more unsettling. What had happened to the knight? Was she shot down by an archer? Torn from the sky by one of Plegia’s wyvern knights? 

Worrisome. Still more for the fact that no one else found it so. 

Sleep would not come easy that night. 

\-----

The weather turned well before dawn, and the Shepherds awoke to grey skies and a blanket of snow covering their tents. The sun never managed to pierce the clouds, and by midday a fierce wind picked up, blowing fresh snow and chilling them all to the bone as it pierced their armor. Robin was glad to have his hood to protect him from the worst of the cold -- but he still looked forward to shelter and warmth that awaited them at the border. 

The Feroxi fortress loomed through the trees, its gates securely barred. “T-t-this is the Feroxi f-fortres-s-ss?” Lissa stammered, huddled in the shadow of Frederick’s horse to escape’s the biting wind. 

“Yes, the Longfort,” Chrom agreed, his voice remarkably steady. “It stretches along the border of Ylisse and Regna Ferox.” And, Robin knew, it continued along the Feroxi border with Plegia, stretching fully from one coast to the next. 

“The khans that rule Ferox have grown quite wary of foreigners,” Frederick added, looking up at the great stone wall. “Still, don’t mistake a lack of hospitality for open hostility. This simply calls for a bit of diplomacy.”

“Negotiation’s not my strong suit, but I’ll do my best,” Chrom said. “Remember, everyone: your actions here reflect back upon Ylisse.”

“Best draw your weapons, then,” Robin muttered, touching the tome in his coat. 

“And incite a war?” Frederick balked. “What manner of _tactician_ are you!?” 

Before Robin could respond, a sound rose from the Longfort. Armor clanking. Bowstrings drawing taut. Blades ringing as they left their sheaths. The tactician glanced left and right to see a handful of fighters in the trees, ready to engage at a word from their commander. 

“Trouble in the wind, milord: the Feroxi Guard are mobilizing,” Frederick reported. Apparently he’d seen the soldiers, as well. 

“What!? Why?” Chrom demanded. 

“Who can say?” Frederick replied, cutting cleanly over Robin’s drawn breath. “But they look ready to let fly at a moment’s notice. We’d best prepare for combat, just to be safe. …loath as I am to trust him, perhaps Robin might offer some insight in this matter?”

“Indeed. He _is_ our tactician, after all. So, Robin? What do you suggest?” the prince asked. 

“Well, I would recommend that you present your arms,” the tactician repeated. “This is Regna Ferox. Successful diplomatic engagements usually require less courtly words and more hitting things.”

Frederick made a disgusted noise. “Such acts will ruin Ylisse’s chances of securing military aid, _and_ offend the khans--”

“Halt! Who goes there!?”

The Shepherds looked up to see a heavily armored woman standing atop the Longfort, her bronze javelin gleaming in the torchlight.

Chrom stepped forward, his hands open in a gesture of peace. “In the name of House Ylisse, I seek audience with the khans!”

“Not another step, my bold lad!” the woman snapped. “I’ve lancers at the ready!”

“Hold, milady!” Frederick called, spurring his horse forward to shield the prince. “We are not your enemy! Exalt Emmeryn herself sent us to discuss matters of mutual interest--”

“My only interest is keeping you out of Regna Ferox, brigand!” the woman shouted, bringing the butt of her spear down on the stones at her feet with a ringing crash. 

“B-brigand!?” Frederick sputtered. “Now see here--”

“You think you’re the first ‘Ylisseans’ to try and cross our border?” the knight scoffed. “I have the authority to fell such imposters where they stand.”

“How dare you! You are in the presence of Prince Chrom, the exalt’s own blood!” Furious now, Frederick approached the gates. 

“Ha! Yes, indeed -- and I’m the queen of Valm!” The woman sneered down at the knight as Robin shook his head, rubbing his temples with one hand. This was getting them nowhere fast. “You do realize impersonating royalty is a capital offense, yes?”

“You may want to draw your blade, Captain,” Robin suggested again as another pair of armored lancers joined the woman on the battlements.

“Mmm…perhaps we should settle this the Feroxi way,” the woman called down to them, her attention fixing on Chrom. “You claim to be the prince of Ylisse? Then prove it on the battlefield!”

“Emmeryn won’t like this at all,” the prince muttered, reaching for his sword. “Please, good lady! If you’d just listen--”

“I’ve heard quite enough!” she shouted. “Attack!!”

Chaos erupted. The lancers atop the Longfort launched their javelins at the unarmed prince. Robin reached for his tome, too slowly, the magic crackling in his palm too weak to fend off three lances. Frederick turned his horse and spurred back, but he was too far to reach Chrom in time. The Shepherds’ voices around him seemed muffled, distant, as the tactician realized with a cold chill that there was nothing he could do to stop this -- his first and only duty a failure--

Something swept past, the snow swirling up in a blinding eddy, and in its wake only the lances remained. No blood. No body. No sign of Chrom at all. Robin scanned the snowy grounds, the trees, the wall, the sky--

A pegasus soared overhead. Shielding his eyes, the tactician could just barely make out two people on its back. 

Thank the gods. His knees very nearly gave out under him as the winged horse returned to the ground, depositing the prince back amongst the Shepherds. “I’m so relieved I made it in time,” he heard Sumia say. He couldn’t agree more. 

“That goes double for me!” Chrom laughed. “And this -- is this the same ornery pegasus we met on the road!?”

“Oh, she’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?” Sumia cooed, stroking the winged horse’s neck. “…once you really get to know her,” she added. 

“Well, many thanks to you both,” the prince said, smiling at both rider and mount. 

“I think the pegasus is blushing,” Lissa giggled as the pegasus tossed her head. 

“And _I_ think we had all best focus on the situation at hand!” Frederick shouted. 

Robin looked up to see the Feroxi guardsmen approaching from the woods. “Chrom, they’re coming,” he cautioned. 

“All right, the Feroxi way it is!” Chrom snarled, drawing his blade. “Shepherds, to arms!”

They all leapt to obey, drawing weapons and charging toward their foes without hesitation -- or forethought. “Wait!” Robin shouted, trying to stop them before they scattered into the wind. “Don’t just charge in -- listen to me!”

They paused, turning toward him. Good. “The first thing we need to do is handle the troops coming from the woods. Vaike, go with Miriel--”

“I ain’t goin’ _nowhere_ with her, she called me an idiot!”

“And I have no intention of allowing an ignoramus to accompany me in combat -- it seems far more likely that his indiscretion will injure me before our enemies.”

“This isn’t a negotiation,” Robin grated out over their protests. “Sully, take Virion--”

“Oh, fine sir, you are truly an agent of fate! On my honor, fair Sully, I will protect you with my very life!”

“Hell _no_! I’m not goin’ _anywhere_ with Ruffles, he’ll just slow me down!”

He’d barely managed ten words and already the situation was deteriorating. The tactician inhaled a deep breath, trying to settle his thoughts and force down the rising frustration buoyed up by their bickering. 

He failed. 

Raising both hands to his mouth, Robin blew an ear-splitting whistle that finally silenced them all. _Now_ he had their full attention. 

“Forgive me for being blunt, but I don’t give a damn about who you _want_ to be partnered with or what personal issues you may have with your fellow Shepherds. That is your private business. _This is a godsdamn battlefield._ I’m supposed to be your tactician, yes?” he asked, feeling his hands shaking and doing nothing to still them. “Then _let me do my duty._ Leave your personal reservations in your tent and _do yours._ ”

His breaths billowed in the freezing air as he fought to reclaim his composure. Anger would only be a hindrance. “Captain, Sumia, I need to know exactly what you saw atop the fort.”

Sumia faltered, but the prince replied without hesitation. “Aside from the lancers in heavy armor, I saw two myrmidons and a pair of fighters.”

The armored units would be troublesome. “They’re moving in a pincer formation from the forest -- we’ll be outmatched if we don’t intercept them before they converge. Move in pairs: those with heavier armor, protect those with lighter armor. Vaike and Miriel, Stahl and Lissa, go with Frederick and take the east. Lissa, keep a close eye out, if anyone’s hurt heal them immediately. Sully and Virion, Chrom and Sumia, I’ll join you in taking the west. Sumia, stay low to the ground, we can cover you from archer fire. Don’t hesitate to use a vulnerary as needed. There’s no need to kill, only incapacitate. If you find a way to the top of the fort, anticipate the lancers will be waiting -- Stahl, Frederick, mount the charge: even if you can’t dent their armor, they’re vulnerable to magic and Miriel can strike from behind you. I’ll do the same for the western force. We either meet back here or atop the fort.”

“Does everyone understand?” the prince asked. The tactician saw them nod as he set his sights on the archers waiting in the shelter of the trees. “Then move out!”

They broke apart. Sumia’s pegasus did not take to the air again, instead keeping close to the captain as he moved toward the woods. Sully charged the bowmen, leaving Virion sprinting to keep up. Not what Robin had been aiming for. But it was easier to move in the packed snow her horse left in its wake. Cutting through the wind-blown drifts, already ankle-deep in places, he hurried after the cavalier, his tome at the ready--

Chrom shouted. The tactician whirled, lightning crackling around his fingers…

…only to die back. He recognized that man in the armor. He’d been at the Shepherd’s garrison before they embarked. When had he arrived?

The prince waved to him, and Robin picked his way over. “Got another one for you,” he chuckled, patting the tactician’s shoulder before pressing on. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” the young man said, bowing his head as best he could in the oversized plate. “Robin, isn’t it? I’m Kellam.”

“A pleasure,” the tactician replied, offering a slight bow in return. “When did you arrive?”

“I’ve been here the whole time,” the knight sighed, trudging just behind Robin as they cut toward the trees. 

Oh. “I-I don’t recall seeing you on the march…”

“I lack presence,” Kellam explained. “People don’t notice me at all. Or if they do, as soon as they look away it’s like I disappear.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Wouldn’t you be, if no one ever noticed you?”

Gods, Robin would be _overjoyed_. 

No time to dwell on that, though. Virion and Sully already had a lightly armored lancer on his knees; the tactician drew his sword as he rushed the nearest archer, drawing a wide arc with the blade that unfortunately did not sever his bowstring -- but Kellam charged past, felling the man with a swift blow from the butt of his spear. 

“Nicely done,” Robin remarked. The knight grinned, and both turned their sights on the last of the Feroxi guardsmen, just in time to see him fall to a stunning blow from Sumia’s lance. 

Chrom crouched down, removing a heavy iron key from the bowman’s hip. “Do you think this will get us to the top of the fort?” he asked. 

“More than likely,” the tactician agreed. The prince tossed the key to Sully, who caught it effortlessly as her horse trotted up to the Longfort’s walls. They did not need to search long: a set of sturdy wooden doors reinforced with metal plate barred the way forward. Robin sheathed his sword, pulling his tome from his coat as the cavalier opened the lock, her mount rearing and kicking the gates open -- 

A heavily armored lancer charged, the spear cutting deep into Sully’s side even as the tactician’s Thunder spell arced over her shoulder, crackling through the guard’s iron plate and dropping him with a heavy crash. In spite of the injury, the cavalier did not slow, spurring her horse over the fallen guardsman and onto the top of the fort. 

“See that she tends that wound,” Robin said as Virion came up beside him. The archer saluted, jogging to catch up with the woman and her mount, while a pegasus flew overhead with both Sumia and Chrom on its back. With no archers left to threaten it, flight gave them an advantage. Pausing to help Kellam navigate the unconscious lancer blocking the way, Robin assessed the new battleground: an axe-wielder moved toward them, but Sully and Virion had already set upon the closest swordsman, and Frederick’s band had successfully found their own way up, engaging the guardsman stationed on the far side of the wall. Odds were in their favor now. 

The tactician fired another Thunder spell at the approaching fighter before he could enter striking range, and Kellam followed close behind with another blow from his spear. Moving quickly, they crossed the wide stone walkway under the shadow of Sumia’s pegasus, converging with Frederick’s band by the gate leading down into the Longfort’s garrison. 

“I take it you fared well,” the prince remarked as he dismounted. 

“Vaike got poked a lot,” Lissa giggled. “But I took care of him.”

“Not like I needed it,” the fighter boasted, tapping his axe against his shoulder. For all his bravado, Robin could still see the fresh pink scars from the blows. He’d need time to recover before the next battle, or else risk re-opening the wounds. 

“So are we done here yet?” Sully sighed. The tactician took one look at her and winced. Apparently the bout with that swordsman had not gone well, and another scattering of deep cuts scored her arms and armor. 

“Lissa, could you heal Sully?” he asked. “And what happened to using vulneraries?”

“That crap’s for delicate little ladies who can’t take a little pain,” the cavalier complained. “And I ain’t no tea-sippin’ lady.”

“No, you’re a soldier who’s putting her unit’s safety at risk by ignoring her own health,” Robin snapped. “Combat is not about who does the most damage, it’s about who takes the least. Decimating your enemy at the cost of your own life means _no one wins_. Do you understand?”

Sully snorted and looked away. But she did not complain as the princess worked her own magic. “I’d better at least get a scar I can tell stories about,” the cavalier muttered.

A sharp crash drew all of their attention. In the shadow of the Longfort’s upper gates stood the garrison’s general, her javelin ringing against her iron shield. “So you still claim to be the Prince of Ylisse? Then let our battle sound out the truth of your words!”

“Be careful,” Robin murmured. “Attack together -- we have the advantage of numbers, and she can’t dodge or counter every blow. Miriel, Virion, and I will keep back and use ranged attacks, the rest of you draw her attention. Lissa, stay alert, take care of injuries, but keep your distance.”

“Understood?” Chrom asked, watching the rest of the Shepherds nod. “Then move out!”

They did without hesitation, surrounding the armored woman in a wide half-ring. She had been wise, keeping her place at the gate: it protected her back, kept her from being completely surrounded. Sound logic.

A bright fireball flew overhead, scattering flames across the general’s heavy armor. Too soon -- without the cavaliers to bar the way, the woman turned, hefting her bronze javelin and throwing it in a low arc that tore through Miriel’s padded robes. “Lissa!” Robin shouted, pointing to the mage gripping her side.

“On it!” the princess saluted, hurrying across the snow-dusted stones as Sully, Stahl, and Frederick brought their mounts within striking distance, with Chrom at their head.

As the prince readied his blade, the tactician glanced across his weapons. “Captain! Rapier!” Startled, Chrom looked down at the other blade on his hip, sheathing the greatsword without complaint and drawing a thin saber in its place.

They charged together. The cavaliers’ lances bounced without effect across the plate armor, though the sheer strength of Frederick’s blow staggered the woman, throwing her off-balance -- just enough for Chrom to dart past her shield and strike, the tip of his rapier sliding through a chink in her armor and drawing the blade across her throat.

They held in silence, broken only by the wind. The Shepherds waited, all eyes fixed on the motionless general and their captain.

The lancer grinned. “It seems your claims were true.”

The heavy spear she held fell with a booming crash as she lifted her hands in surrender. Chrom moved slowly, withdrawing his rapier from her armor and sheathing the narrow blade; the rest of the Shepherds lowered their arms, relaxing as the general offered a low bow. “A thousand apologies, Prince Chrom. I truly took you for brigand imposters. But no frauds could ever wage battle as you just have! I will send word of your arrival to the capital and escort you there personally.”

“That would be most appreciated,” the captain said. “Thank you.”

As the woman turned and entered the Longfort’s upper gates, Sumia simply stared. “I can’t believe her whole attitude just…changed.”

“In Ferox, strength speaks louder than words,” Frederick explained, looking rather chagrined. “I should have known better than to overestimate the value of diplomacy here…”

Robin considered reminding the knight that he’d recommended a show of valor from the start. Best not, though: no need to lower his standing still further.

“S-so can we get going now?” Lissa asked, beginning to shiver again as the cold wind bit through the waning heat of battle.

“Yes,” her brother agreed. “It’s not getting any warmer.”

As the Shepherds filed down into the Feroxi garrison, Robin breathed a slow, billowing sigh into the wind. Somehow, their first engagement had ended without too much spilled blood. But if this were to become a regular part of his life, they had a great deal of work to do before the next battle.


	5. Regna Ferox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unable to secure military support from the East-Khan of Regna Ferox, the Shepherds agree to act as Champions in the upcoming tournament to decide who will take full control of the land. Robin makes some progress with his attempts to turn them from a band of individuals into a capable team -- but will it be enough to sieze the day, and with it Ylisse's hope for aid?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: Language, Violence, Blood, Gore**
> 
>   
> _And then came the worldbuilding_
> 
> I did take a break before starting this chapter, but then actually writing it got way out of hand. This chapter amounts for just under half of the current online word count for this story.
> 
> Not everything in this chapter is riveting. A lot of it is dedicated to simple things: training, meals, conversations. But Regna Ferox is conceptually fascinating, and I wound up spending a lot of time researching inane things like _where does molasses come from and when did it first show up?_
> 
> ~~Answer: molasses based on sugarcane has been around since around 500 BCE, but it can also be produced using sugar beets. Beets were around in ancient Greece, and while the 'modern' sugar beet variety wasn't cultivated for that purpose until the mid-1700's, people have known since the 1500's that boiling them produced a sweet liquid. Plus, sugar beets got pretty big in Russia, and if Russia can do it you bet your ass Ferox can, too~~
> 
> Robin gets to be my fountain of knowledge about weird foreign customs, and he will continue to be for the forseeable future -- but we get our first perspective shift in this chapter, and a view of the world (and our tactician) through a new set of eyes. So it's easy to track, dashes (-) will indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective.
> 
> Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

With thick furs to stave off the cold and strong horses to pull the wagons, traveling by caravan to the capital took significantly less time and proved far more comfortable than marching. Guided by a vanguard of Feroxi soldiers, the Shepherds slept through the long night’s journey, arriving stiff but relatively rested at the Feroxi stronghold. 

Unlike the Ylissean palace, full of light and polished stone, the khans’ fortress was dark and rather foreboding, with sparse windows barred in wrought iron allowing only small patches of light to touch the stone floor. Much of the illumination came from great braziers lining the entry hall, casting swaths of flickering light to drive out the dark and the chill. 

As General Raimi excused herself to summon the khan, Chrom looked around the vast chamber. “So, any advice on how to make a good impression?”

“Be respectful,” Frederick suggested. “You need to be polite if we’re to secure aid for Ylisse.”

“Anything else?”

It took Robin a moment to realize that the prince was looking to him. “Well, while Ylisseans greet each other with a shake of the hand, the Feroxi greeting is a shake at the wrist. Pretend you’re trying to break the khan’s arm with your grip -- I assure you, they’ll do the same.”

“Preposterous!” the great knight snorted. 

“The people of Ferox, and their khans, prize strength above words,” Robin explained. “Your greeting will either earn or lose you respect -- a firm grip comes from strong hands accustomed to hard work or combat, and the Feroxis admire those above all. After all, the khan is likely out training as we speak.”

“Well, the khans do prefer battle to politics, judging by that greeting at the Longfort. Or rather, battle _is_ their politics,” Chrom agreed. 

“Indeed.”

They turned as a handsome woman in red and silver armor strode toward them, her pale hair stark against well-tanned skin. Her indulgent smile offset her otherwise fierce features, making her look unsettlingly like a cat that had stumbled across a flightless chick. 

“ _You’re_ the -- t-that is to say…the khan, I presume?” Chrom asked, catching himself admirably (though the khan’s grin sharpened at his momentary slip). 

“One of them, yes -- the East-Khan. My name is Flavia,” she said, offering her hand. Chrom reached out, gripping her wrist firmly -- though his look of discomfort a moment later spoke volumes about the strength she returned.

The khan laughed as she released the prince’s arm, clapping him hard on the shoulder and nearly staggering him. “I apologize for the troubles at the border, Prince Chrom. You are welcome in Regna Ferox.”

“Thank you, but I’m confident we can put that misunderstanding behind us,” the prince said. “Is it true bandits posing as Ylisseans have been ransacking your border villages?”

“Yes,” Flavia growled, her mirth twisting into a fierce snarl. “Those Plegian dogs! We found documents proving as much on the corpse of one of their captains. Plegia must see some benefit in raising tensions between your kingdom and ours.”

Chrom gritted his teeth. “Damn then!” Frederick cleared his throat, and the prince swiftly regained his composure. “I…forgive me, Your Grace. That was…indelicately put.”

Flavia only laughed. “Damn them and damn delicacy! Here in Ferox, we appreciate plain speech.”

“In that case, you should have a word with your damn border guards,” Chrom muttered. 

“Now _that’s_ Feroxi diplomacy,” the khan chuckled, patting his shoulder again. “Yes, I like you already. I know why you have come, Prince. But regrettably, I cannot provide any Feroxi troops for Ylisse.”

“What!? Why not?” Lissa protested, peering around Frederick. 

“I lack the authority,” Flavia shrugged, and Robin felt his heart sink. Had the tides turned since he left?

“Forgive me, but I don’t understand,” Chrom said. “Aren’t you the khan?”

“As I said, I am _one_ of the khans,” she repeated. “In Ferox, the khans of east and west hold a tournament every few years. The victor acquires total sovereignty over both kingdoms. That means they have the final say when it comes to forging alliances. The West-Khan won the last tournament, you see, and so…”

“We are to receive no aid at all?” the prince asked, his fists tightening.

“Not if you always give up so easily,” Flavia chided. “The next tournament is nigh, you see, and I am in need of champions.”

“What does that have to do with us?” the prince asked. 

“The captain of my border guard informs me your Shepherds are quite capable,” the khan replied easily, her smile creeping back. “Perhaps you would consider representing the East in the upcoming tournament? If you win and I become ruling khan, I will grant your alliance.”

“I would have assumed Ylisseans had no place in such Feroxi traditions.” While Chrom seemed increasingly perplexed, Robin felt only a growing unease. He had no doubts about just where this conversation was headed. 

“On the contrary,” Flavia laughed. “The khans themselves do not fight -- they choose champions to represent them. Otherwise our land would be rife with blood feuds and dead khans! We don’t involve comrades or kin for the same reason. Over time, it was decided the tournament should be fought by outsiders. Although the outsiders have never included foreign royalty…that I know of! Regardless, it is your choice to make.”

“There is no choice, East-Khan” the captain replied without hesitation. “My people are desperate. Plegia’s attacks have grown more regular, and press further into Ylisse with each strike. If fighting for you is the quickest way to an alliance, then we will take up our steel.”

“Oh, I like you, Prince Chrom,” the khan chuckled, her applause loud enough to echo from the high rafters. “I do hope you survive the tournament! Come, I’ll show you the arena. But be wary! I hear an equally able swordsman champions the West-Khan.”

“He shall be defeated by Ylisse’s necessity,” the captain growled, touching the hilt of his sword. 

“Well spoken again -- I look forward to seeing if you’re equally skilled with a blade!” The East-Khan turned, gesturing for the Shepherds to follow. Leading the way through dark, winding corridors lit by infrequent sconces, they made their way deep into the heart of the Feroxi stronghold. The lack of natural light unsettled Robin more than he dared show -- he could not keep his bearings in this maze of hallways, and with no idea of how far the outside might be--

A terrible roar of wood scraping against stone rose ahead of them as a beam of blinding light spread across the wall. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust enough to see the gates that had opened onto a great arena, the walls scored with cuts from hundreds of battles before. High above the circular battlefield with its polished mosaic floor, giant braziers lit the deep platforms where spectators could view the action below.

“Welcome to Arena Ferox,” Flavia said, breathing deep the chill air that filled the open stadium. “The tournament will take place in one week’s time. As my champions, you will be my honored guests -- stay within the eastern half of the fortress and you should be fine. Raimi will show you and your men around. Make yourselves comfortable -- but don’t slack off.”

“Beg pardon, East-Khan,” Robin said, looking out over the arena. “Do you have training areas that we might use to prepare for the challenge?”

“Naturally,” Flavia chuckled. “Raimi will show you those, as well. Good luck.”

As the khan turned back, Chrom touched the tactician’s shoulder. “Do you have a plan?”

“Not as such,” the tactician replied. “But if we intend to survive, let alone succeed, we have much to do before this tournament.”

“I leave it in your hands, then.” Robin caught a glimpse of the prince’s smile and fought to keep his focus. Don’t get distracted. Prepare. 

And they would. He’d see to that.

\-----

“What’re we doin’ here?” Vaike asked, kicking a burlap sack and raising a cloud of fine dust. “This tournament thing ain’t for a week, right? We should be kicking back and relaxing, not freezing our asses off out here.”

“Quit whinin’,” Sully grumbled, punching him in the shoulder. “I ain’t complainin’, and your flabby ass needs it more’n mine.”

“I admit, I am quite curious as to the motives behind this gathering,” Miriel said, adjusting her spectacles. “Is this an exercise to acclimatize us to the ambient weather conditions?”

“No,” Robin sighed, not entirely sure of what the mage had said but certain it had nothing to do with why they were here. “We’re here to train.”

“I-i-in the cold?” Lissa whined, huddled in the shadow of Frederick’s armor. “C-couldn’t we do somethi-i-ing _inside?_ ”

“You’ll warm up once you get moving,” Chrom assured her. Which the tactician appreciated, since otherwise he would have to explain that the Feroxi only rarely dedicated enclosed spaces to training. 

“So what are we supposed to do?” Stahl asked as the Shepherds looked out over the training grounds. The low walls contained all manner of debris and obstacles, from high log barricades to deep pit falls. The winding course was not marked, but after years of use, there was no need: the path worn by so many feet was impossible to miss. 

“You’re supposed to get through there,” Robin replied. 

“Easy,” Sully snorted. 

“ _Together._ ”

A few of them shrugged, as though to say the task would pose no challenge. None of them looked concerned, though. And the tactician remained _very_ worried about that. 

“Have at it, then.” He watched them bolt into the fray, his hood up to shield him from the biting wind, and waited. Sully and Chrom were among the first to make it to the high barricade -- and, as he’d expected, they each tried to scale it individually. “So much for together,” he muttered, tugging his hood a hair further over his eyes. 

After a few agonizing minutes spent watching them struggle and fail to surmount the wall, Robin sighed and walked toward them. “Didn’t you say this would be easy?” he asked as he reached the wall. 

“It would be, if this damn thing were made right!” Sully snarled. “It ain’t got handholds!”

“No, it doesn’t,” the tactician agreed. 

“So how the hell’re we supposed to get over it?” Vaike asked. 

“By helping each other.”

“And let somebody else get ahead of me? Hell no!” Sully balked. 

“I’m sorry, perhaps I wasn’t clear enough about what _together_ meant,” Robin snapped. “It means _you need to work with your fellow Shepherds._ It doesn’t matter who gets back to the start _first._ If even _one_ of you is left behind, _you have failed this course._ ”

He had their attention again. Not all of them seemed happy to give it, but they at least looked to him for an explanation. “Look around you,” he sighed. “What do you see?”

“Snow?” Sumia suggested. 

“Mountains,” Stahl offered, pointing out the low ridges surrounding the Feroxi stronghold.

“Bare ground,” Frederick said. 

“Precisely,” Robin agreed. “Regna Ferox is a harsh land. The winters are long and bitter here. The soil might be good when it’s not frozen, but the growing season is woefully short. The Feroxis do not prize strength because they are barbaric warriors, they prize it because that is the only way to survive here. You must be strong to till the soil, to sow and reap as much as possible while the seasons allow. You must be strong to tend your livestock through the harsh winter when walls of snow might block your doors. You must be strong to cut timber, to mine ore, to build houses able to withstand the weight of snow or forge tools to break the hard earth after a long winter. Strength is _survival_ here. The only thing the Feroxis prize as highly are their kith and kin. One man’s strength can only do so much -- but many working together can conquer even the cruelest terrain. A man without friends or family, no matter how strong he may be, is weak because he is alone. Feroxis take care of one another. They work toward common goals, regardless of personal feuds. That is what this course is for. No one man can surmount these obstacles -- but if you work together, combining individual strengths to overcome individual weaknesses, then you _can_ succeed. Do you understand?”

Doubtful looks passed between them. A few rolled their eyes, and the tactician pulled his hood toward his nose. This was going nowhere fast--

“Sully.”

Robin peered out as the captain went down on one knee, his fingers laced together. 

“Gods, puttin’ me on the spot,” the cavalier grumbled, raking furiously at her curly red hair. “Alright, _fine._ ” She stepped forward, her boot resting in his cupped hands, and the prince heaved her up. Capitalizing on the momentum, Sully leapt the last foot up to catch the edge, clambering onto the top of the wall and reaching down to grab Lissa’s hand as her brother helped her up. 

The tactician felt a smile creep across his face. Maybe they had a chance, after all.

\-----

By supper, the lot of them were exhausted, worn ragged by a single round through the course. Not that it surprised Robin. Feroxi training regimens were intense at their best, grueling at their worst. But they had made substantial progress -- enough that he had begun offhandedly considering what pairs would work best together in the next day’s training.

Raimi arrived as a loud gong echoed through the fortress, leading them through the winding maze of hallways to the great hall, already bustling with people. The combined heat of so many bodies and the heavy iron braziers lighting the room certainly banished any lingering chill. 

Flavia greeted them as her captain led them to the head table. “I see you survived your afternoon,” she laughed. “Enjoy a good Feroxi work-out?”

While most of the Shepherds struggled to find something to say, Chrom managed to smile. “It was more than we bargained for, but it taught us all a great deal.” The rest of the band nodded in agreement as they took their seats, taking up their utensils in eager anticipation of the meal to come. 

“I’m glad to hear it. Keep at it and you might live through the tournament,” the East-Khan grinned. “I hope you enjoy your meal -- it’s a Feroxi specialty.”

The wink she gave them as she left did not bode well. 

“What does that mean?” Lissa whispered. 

“Something bitter,” Robin muttered back. “Pine is a favored spice here, since it’s the only thing that grows in abundance throughout the year. Feroxis like their flavors…intense.” 

The Shepherds close enough to hear gave him uncertain looks as a heavily muscled man toting a blackened iron cookpot lumbered over, ladling a heaping portion of thick, dark stew into each of their bowls. The aroma seemed pleasant, at least -- but then, the tactician was hungry enough that he wagered old boots would smell delicious. 

“Well, here goes,” Chrom said, lifting his spoon. The rest of his soldiers joined him in a collective bite--

“Oh, wow, this is very mild,” Robin mumbled as the Shepherds around him choked and scrabbled for their drinks. “They must have gone easy on the seasoning for you.”

“This is _easy!?_ ” Stahl balked. “I think my mouth tried to turn inside out.”

“It’s not fit for a Feroxi unless it can corrode iron,” the tactician chuckled, taking another bite. “Why do you think your tableware is all wood?”

While that wasn’t entirely true, it was a favored joke when Feroxis entertained foreign guests. The Shepherds looked warily at their dishes even still, some poking at the chunks of meat visible at the surface, a few attempting another bite with only marginally more success. Robin had no such qualms, digging in with gusto. He never thought he’d miss Feroxi cooking, but the bite and warmth of the meal felt somehow comforting. 

The Shepherds looked up as Flavia sauntered back, leaning against the back of Chrom’s chair. “So how did you like your first taste of Ferox?”

While the soldiers around him looked mutely between their neighbors, the tactician scraped the bottom of his bowl. “Delicious,” he replied. “Mutton stew, I imagine? It’s so tender, I’d think it lamb.”

“Quite right,” she said. He could feel her feline gaze on him, and tried not to shrink for fear of proving himself a mouse. “And a healthy appetite, I see. Can’t have you lot going hungry, now, can we? Eat up, all of you!” She waved a hand over her head, and the man with the cookpot returned to top off all their bowls. 

“I don’t know if I can do this,” Lissa whispered as the East-Khan departed. “I think that bear would have been better than this.”

“Aw, quit whinin’,” Sully grumbled, forging ahead with her own meal. “It’s not like it’ll kill you.”

“I’m not so sure,” Stahl mumbled. “I’m starting to miss field rations.”

“Be polite, all of you!” Frederick snapped, his own meal conspicuously untouched. “We are all guests here, show some respect!”

“If Ferox is all about fightin’, wouldn’t that mean throwin’ our bowls?” Vaike asked. 

“Actually, it’s an insult to waste food,” Robin remarked. 

“Best clean your bowls, then.” The order was not lost on the Shepherds, who stiffened at their captain’s words and obediently picked up their spoons and began to eat, some with great speed and others with painstaking hesitation. But they all managed to clean their bowls (though the tactician pretended not to notice people sneaking portions into each other’s dishes). 

By the time Frederick forced down his last spoonful, the great hall had gone quiet, the light fading as the braziers burned down to embers. They made their way to their quarters, bidding one another quiet good nights as they parted, to relax or sleep (or perhaps even train -- he wouldn’t put it past Sully). Robin found none of them appealing. So he simply lay on his cot in the cold silence, drawing ephemeral symbols in the fur of his blanket until his eyes would not stay open.

\-----

His plans for the day got off to a rough start when they found the training field occupied by a Feroxi guard force. Though, truth be told, it was not all bad: it certainly proved the point he’d fought to make the afternoon before. Watching the team of men and women lifting and pulling one another, sometimes in groups of two or even three, through the field left the Shepherds agog -- and still more when the warriors circled back around to the beginning and attacked the course again.

“They’ll be at it a while,” Robin remarked. “Five laps is standard for training, so we’ll be better served trying in the afternoon. In the meantime, there are other things to do.” 

He turned away from the field, moving through a low gate into the next training area. This one, thankfully, was empty: a thick, even layer of snow covered the ground, and lines of variously sized sticks lined the stone wall by the door to the fortress. This would do well. 

“So what’re we doin’ now?” Sully asked, rolling her shoulders. 

“Warm up and pair off,” the tactician replied. “And take up a branch. We’ll be sparring.”

“Uhm…”

While most of the Shepherds moved to comply, stretching and preparing for battle, a handful stayed behind. “What am I supposed to do?” Lissa asked, gripping her staff tight. 

“Indeed, this is all _dreadfully_ uncouth,” Virion sniffed. “You would have an archer of my caliber fight with a mere _stick?_ ”

“Loath as I am to admit such shortcomings, my physical acumen is rather paltry by comparison  
to my mental fortitude,” Miriel remarked. 

“Miriel, Virion, your weapons are at your feet,” Robin replied. They both looked down at the snow covering their boots. “I’d recommend gloves, if you have them.”

“My word! You must be mad,” the archer balked. 

“I fail to see how minute crystals of frozen water will assist in this regimen,” the mage agreed as the tactician crouched down, scooping up a handful of snow and packing it into a tight ball.

“Perhaps you need to approach the problem from a different angle.” Tossing his makeshift weapon once into the air to test its heft, Robin stood and threw it, hitting Virion square in the forehead. The archer shrieked, staggered none-too-gracefully backward, and attempted to piece shards of packed snow out of his hair. 

“Ah.” Miriel smiled, adjusting her spectacles. “By compressing the crystals into a spherical shape it can be used as a projectile. Fascinating.”

Lissa looked at the tactician, who shrugged, simply watching as the mage crouched down and began experimenting with small heaps of snow. “Do I get to throw snowballs, too?” the princess asked. 

“Maybe later,” Robin said. “Lissa, you’re the most important person in this exercise, so you don’t get a weapon.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Shouldn’t I get the _biggest_ weapon if I’m that important?” she pouted.

The tactician smiled and moved toward the assembled Shepherds standing in groups of two: Chrom and Sully, Frederick and Virion (who continued to complain both about the snow in his hair and his unfeminine partner), Sumia and Stahl, Miriel and Kellam (though he had a feeling she hadn’t noticed him yet), and Vaike on his own. Most already held ‘weapons’ that best suited them: long poles for the lancers, blunt clubs for the axe wielders, and something in between for the swordsmen.

“Alright, now what?” Chrom asked. 

“Now we team the pairs,” Robin said. “Chrom and Sully, Miriel and Kellam, you’ll be one team. Frederick and Virion, Sumia and Stahl, you’ll be the other.”

“I protest! I will not strike at milord.” The great knight crossed his arms, staring the tactician down. 

But Robin did not flinch. “Then your team is at a disadvantage,” he shrugged. “Lissa, Vaike, and I will sit out for now, but the training itself is simple: your goal is to strike the members of the other team three times on the body. Once you’ve taken three hits, you’re out of combat. You’ll stay in pairs, but teammates can switch off: if it’s more advantageous for Chrom and Kellam to fight together, you simply trade partners. Partners can block attacks for one another, but try not to do it by putting yourself in the line of fire, since that will count against you. If your partner goes out, you’re on your own. If the other pair on your team also loses a member, then you can pair up with whoever’s left. The first team to take out the other side wins.”

“Seems simple enough,” Stahl muttered. “Is there a catch?”

“Oh, the catch won’t show up until the next round,” the tactician chuckled. “We’ll keep it simple for now. Lissa and I will keep score.”

“Hey! What about Teach?” Vaike asked. 

“Can you even count that high?” Lissa teased. 

“Your job,” Robin said, cutting over the fighter’s protests, “is to pay attention. Notice what goes right -- or wrong.” Vaike did not look impressed, but at least did not lodge further complaints. “Well, have at it.”

Really, there was no contest. Chrom and Sully pressed their advantage with Frederick’s refusal to fight the prince, and Virion’s hesitation to chill his hands left the great knight defenseless -- and the archer equally so, once the cavalier stormed off to stand beside Lissa and Vaike. Try as they might, Stahl and Sumia were simply outnumbered, and fell one after another in short order. 

“Wow. That was sort of pathetic,” Lissa muttered. 

“Usually they last longer,” the tactician agreed. “But I think this proved a valuable point.”

“And what is that?” Frederick grumbled. 

“Vaike?” Robin turned to the fighter, who looked blankly around for help. Finding none, he rubbed the back of his neck. 

“Well, it sure wasn’t much of a fight,” he ventured. “Frederick and Ruffles wouldn’t do anything, so they got taken down like, bam bam! And then it was no contest with four against two.”

“Exactly.” The fighter relaxed immediately, puffing his chest out proudly. “Hesitation in battle is deadly. Thinking only of yourself, just as much so -- only it leads to the death of your allies first. Take care of your comrades and they will be there to take care of you. Now switch your partners -- Vaike, Lissa, you’ll be taking Frederick’s and Virion’s places.”

They regrouped quickly: Chrom and Lissa, Sully and Stahl, Miriel and Sumia, Kellam and Vaike. The fighter seemed excited to start dealing blows, at least. “Chrom and Lissa, Sumia and Miriel, you’ll be one team. Sully and Stahl, Kellam and Vaike, you’ll be the other.”

“Yes!” the fighter cheered, raising his club. “You’re mine, Chrom!”

“What was that catch you mentioned?” Stahl asked. 

“Oh, yes,” the tactician chuckled. “The catch. That would be Lissa.”

Everyone looked to the princess, who shrugged. “Lissa is a cleric. She won’t be fighting at all.”

“Doesn’t that put us at a disadvantage?” Sumia asked. 

“It would,” Robin agreed. “But clerics have a special role on the battlefield. They’re healers. They keep the army fighting -- so if Lissa touches you, your hit count resets.”

“Hey, no fair!” Sully said. “How’re we supposed to compete with that?” 

The tactician shrugged. “You’ll have to figure that out, won’t you? Have at it, then.”

They wasted no time leaping at one another with weapons in hand. Sully and Vaike charged for Lissa, only to have Chrom and Sumia block their advance. They seemed to be catching on: Lissa’s team kept their cleric out of reach, while the other side took greater care in parrying and avoiding blows. 

In the end, it was teamwork that won the bout. Vaike’s club opened Sumia’s defenses just enough for Kellam’s spear to strike, while Chrom’s attempt to block Sully’s spear gave Stahl his chance. Lissa’s choice to stay with her brother took the pegasus knight out, and Miriel moments later. Sheer numbers were all it took after that. 

“Nicely done.” The tactician applauded as Sully’s team cheered their victory. “So tell me: why did you win?”

“Because we’re awesome,” Vaike replied, tapping his club against his shoulder. 

“They made better use of their weapons,” Frederick said.

“Precisely. Every weapon has its strengths and weaknesses. A lance’s reach will best a sword, a sword’s speed will best an axe, and an axe’s force will best a lance. You need to pay attention on the field to what weapon your enemy wields, or else you might find yourself at a disadvantage. Now, then: Sumia, Miriel, take a break, Frederick and Virion--”

“Do you plan on taking part in this exercise?” the great knight asked. 

“I’d planned on it, but it’s no fun if no one else knows how to play,” the tactician shrugged.

“Play?” The Shepherds looked to one another in confusion. “Is this a game?” Chrom asked. 

“Of course.” 

They turned to see Flavia lounging in the doorway leading back into the fortress. “You’ll see whole armies of boys and girls playing like that in the fields. Foreigners seem to think we have roving bands of feral children,” she laughed. “But it teaches them teamwork and builds camaraderie while they beat each other into the mud.” 

She meandered over to the remaining sticks resting against the wall, lifting one and giving it an experimental swing. “Gods, I haven’t played this game since I could heft a broadaxe. Mind if I join in the fun?”

“If you have the time, we’d be glad to take instruction from you, East-Khan,” Chrom replied. 

“I want this one as my partner,” Flavia declared, slinging her arm around Robin’s shoulders and pulling him against her. “We’ll mop the floor with these fledglings.”

“I-I don’t know, I’m not much good at this game -- no one ever wanted me on their team,” the tactician admitted. Granted, there may have been reasons for that besides his skill, but--

“Horseshit,” the East-Khan said. “We’ll clear the field.”

That challenge spurred them all into action, and things swiftly dissolved into chaos as the Shepherds tried to sort out who would be on which side. They really were like children sometimes. 

“You know your way around Feroxi customs,” Flavia remarked, still leaning against his shoulder.

“I spent the better part of my childhood here,” the tactician confessed. “It made an impression.”

“So what sent you running for the summerlands?”

“Do I look like I could survive a lifetime in Ferox?” 

Flavia sized him up out of the corner of her eye. “Good point. You’re too scrawny. Somebody’d mistake you for a stick and use you for kindling.”

“And I likely wouldn’t burn well enough for a Feroxi fire, either,” he sighed. Which at least made the East-Khan laugh.

True to her word, once they managed to divide the teams, Flavia took the lead in knocking everyone in her path out of the game. Even if she hadn’t played in years, her capability as a warrior set her well apart from their haphazard band. Robin had very little to do -- though he still did his best, lobbing snowballs at the occasional Shepherd trying to sneak in a blow around her guard or past her notice. 

Things devolved in short order into a free-for-all, with snowballs flying every which way and laughter drawing the attention of Feroxis from the neighboring training fields. Not that any of the Shepherds seemed to notice, or care if they did. Robin admired them for that: even with high stakes, they could still relax, could still laugh and jest and _enjoy_ themselves. 

Training could resume later. They had earned their rest.

***

After two days of Feroxi-style training, even Sully was looking worse for the wear. Chrom wasn’t sure how Feroxi warriors did it, when his Shepherds were looking ragged and weary after barely a fraction of the routine.

As they tore into a hot morning meal, the prince glanced at the tactician sitting to his left. No expression. He had trouble reading Robin -- not that he had an easy time reading any of his soldiers, but the tactician proved especially difficult. More often than not, he was utterly impassive. Chrom had seen him smile once in the two weeks since they’d met. He’d started to wonder if the man had emotions at all. 

“So what’s the plan for today?” he asked. “More sparring? Another round of that obstacle course?”

Robin looked up from his mostly empty bowl. “Hm? Oh, no, nothing like that. Today is for rest.”

A few Shepherds dropped their tableware. “Really?” Sumia asked. 

“Is this some kinda trick?” Vaike growled. 

“No tricks,” the tactician replied. “You’ve pushed yourselves hard, and you’re doing well. But if you overexert yourselves, you’ll benefit less from the exercises and you’re more likely to be hurt. Take today to relax, and we’ll resume tomorrow.”

Chrom had to admit, he was more than a little surprised. Robin was nearly as harsh a taskmaster as Frederick -- the word ‘rest’ didn’t seem to be in the great knight’s vocabulary. But the prince was not about to waste an opportunity to catch his breath. “You heard him,” he said. “Today is yours.”

His soldiers wasted no time in escaping before the tactician could change his mind. And lucky for him, Frederick hurried off after Lissa as she fled the great hall rather than staying to babysit the prince. Which left him and Robin as the only two Shepherds at the table in short order. 

“Do you think we’ll be ready for the tournament?” Chrom asked. 

“Two more days of training and we’ll see,” Robin sighed. “Regardless, the day before the tournament will be for rest. Going into battle exhausted is as dangerous as going in unprepared.”

“You sound as though you speak from experience.”

“Fighting brigands after a sleepless night is not something I recommend,” the tactician muttered, tucking into his newly refilled bowl. He certainly had a hearty appetite: at every meal, he put away at least two helpings of whatever the Feroxis served up. 

“So how do you rate our chances of winning?” the prince asked, scooping another dollop of molasses into his own dish to sweeten the thick, bland porridge.

“I won’t know until I see the West-Khan’s champions.”

“Take a guess.”

Robin sighed, tapping his spoon against the edge of his bowl. “Well, based on the tournament tradition, we’re not dealing with Feroxis. Which means we’ll either be dealing with unaffiliated Ylisseans, or possibly Valmese. I’m not familiar with Valmese training styles, but let’s assume they’ve been training with Feroxi methods. Judging by Flavia’s remark about the West-Khan’s champion when we met, he’s had his man -- or men -- for at least a few days more than we’ve been here. We’ll assume a week. Feroxi training is hard, so we can guess that they’re not undergoing the full ordeal, but they’ve still been at it a week longer -- but I doubt they’ve resorted to children’s games, and for all we know, they may be focusing on individual training rather than Feroxi teamwork. So with two more days…who knows? We may at least survive -- but the best I can hope for at this moment is a draw with everyone still breathing.”

Chrom stared. The tactician glanced up from his meal and immediately went stiff. “W-what? Did I say something wrong?”

“I think that’s the most I’ve heard you say outside of combat in two weeks,” the prince remarked. 

Robin chuckled. “Lissa said something similar not long ago.”

“So where did you learn all this?” Chrom asked as he stirred his porridge. 

“Growing up in Ferox. Traveling. Mostly books.”

“Have you ever acted as a tactician before?”

The tactician shook his head, staring down at his dish as he ate. The prince frowned. He hadn’t meant to silence the man. Perhaps a different tack.

“Why do you think the Plegians have been trying to sour relations between Ylisse and Regna Ferox?”

Silence. Robin scraped the bottom of his bowl before setting it aside, rubbing the back of his right hand. “I would imagine it’s to weaken Ylisse. Plegia and Ferox are neutral neighbors. Bad blood exists between Plegia and Ylisse. While the Exalt has brought peace to her country, Plegia’s king has not done much if anything to assuage his peoples’ resentment. Ylisse’s overall reduction of military forces might seem like a golden opportunity to Plegia to exact revenge -- but if Ylisse receives military aid from Ferox…”

“It would make sense,” Chrom muttered. “…but why would they want another war?”

“They see an opportunity to strike their greatest enemy at its weakest. Vengeance is powerful, but not known for its wisdom.”

“Did you learn all of this from books, too?” the prince asked. 

“Mostly,” Robin agreed. 

“Why would you want to study that?”

“It’s important,” the tactician shrugged. “I was four, perhaps five, when the last war ended. I couldn’t understand it, at that age. And clearly, the effects of that conflict are still felt on both sides of the continent. If I don’t know about it, how can I understand the people of Ylisse while I’m among them?”

Chrom had never stopped to consider what the other nations thought of their conflict. What did the Feroxis think of his father’s so-called ‘holy war’?

…well, he had likely the best person to ask. “How do the Feroxis see the war?”

“It’s not their problem, unless it spills over their borders,” Robin answered without hesitation. “That’s Ferox’s answer to everything.”

“Then why all this training?” 

“Ferox takes pride in its standing army. Here, service is a rite of passage. Every Feroxi man or woman is expected to train for the defense of their country, from threats without or within -- brigands, bloodthirsty beasts, crazed men, are all things the Feroxi Guard sees to. And once their service is ended, they can either choose to return home and take up a steady profession in construction, smithing, farming, and so on; or stay on in the Guard, which puts them in the service of the Khans -- east or west depending on their hometown.”

“Did you serve in the Guard?”

“Oh, no,” Robin laughed, ruffling his pale hair. “They would have eaten me alive, assuming they’d even allow me in. I came to Ylisse before the conscription age.”

“Why would they not allow you in?” Chrom asked. “You said you’re from Ferox.”

“Do I look Feroxi?” 

…Frederick had said something like, too, hadn’t he? And after seeing the East-Khan and many of her soldiers, he had to admit that the great knight had a point. The tactician’s skin was too pale, his build too slight. “No,” the prince agreed. 

“Feroxis take great pride in their people, their fortitude, their ability to endure. When Flavia says that she hopes you survive the tournament, it’s not meant as an insult. Not really. It’s simply that she can’t say with certainty that you would survive in a Feroxi engagement. But you are also foreign visitors, not foreign immigrants. The Feroxis are happy to welcome you and show off in the time you’re here. But they have harsh views of foreigners settling in their lands -- less if those immigrants are capable with blade or bow, but still. Someone who prefers the tome to the sword? Who cannot run, climb, or strike as quickly or as well?”

He’d never thought of that. What must Ylisse be like for an immigrant trying to make a new life? Were his lands so harsh with outsiders as Regna Ferox? “Is that why you left?”

The tactician’s attempt at a smile barely turned his mouth up. “A craven motive, isn’t it?”

“No.”

Robin glanced up, his fingers briefly stilling on the back of his gloved hand. At least Chrom could be sure he had the man’s attention now. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be praised, rather than ostracized, for your talents, nor in leaving a place that makes you unhappy in hopes of finding something better. And I still hope Ylisse will be that place for you.”

The tactician looked down at his empty bowl again, running his fingers through his unkempt hair. “As do I. So do you have plans? For your day of rest, I mean.” 

“Not particularly,” the prince chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “I’ve been meaning to explore more of the fortress. I might visit the market outside to pick up a more lasting souvenir from this trip than all the bruises I’m going home with.”

Robin laughed weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. “The training has been rather harsh.”

“Frederick’s workouts seem easy compared to this,” Chrom agreed. “And no one wants to work out with Frederick. But it’s necessary -- we understand that.”

The tactician seemed unconvinced. But he said nothing more on the subject. “And you?” the prince asked. “What do you plan to do?”

“Prepare for tomorrow,” Robin answered without hesitation. “I’d like to be ready as soon as breakfast is done to start training--”

“You said today is for _relaxing,_ ” Chrom laughed. “That means _you_ need to take a break, too. No planning.”

“But--”

“No planning,” he repeated. “Do something fun. What do you do when you’re not running yourself ragged?”

“…read, mostly.” 

He could have guessed that. “Find a library. Feroxis have libraries, don’t they?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Go find one. Read something. _Enjoy_ yourself. …that’s an order.”

Robin hesitated. The prince wondered if he would try to argue -- but after a moment, he offered an awkward salute. “…yes, sir.”

Chrom grinned. “I’m glad that’s settled. Come on, then -- let’s go find that library.”

“A-are you coming with me?” the tactician asked as the prince pushed his chair back. 

“I said I wanted to explore the fortress,” Chrom chuckled. “Finding the library is exploring. Gods know what else we’ll run into while we look for it.” 

Robin’s smile seemed a bit brighter now. “Feroxis are full of surprises,” he agreed, standing and following the prince’s lead. After finding two armor caches, a council room covered in maps and weapon racks, and a smoky laboratory that Miriel would have loved to explore, they finally stumbled across a reading room: a fire blazed in a deep stone hearth, with thickly padded chairs and sturdy tables settled in a half-ring beyond it. Shelves full of books lined the walls, and another door on the far side of the room likely led to the library proper -- but the tactician seemed happy enough, running his hands along the rows of tomes, pausing to leaf through some, tucking a few of those under his arm to likely examine in greater depth. 

“Do you think you can find your way back to the meal hall from here?” Chrom asked. “Because I think I need a map.”

“Down the hall, first right, second left, I think. But I’m no cartographer,” the tactician chuckled. “If you make it to the market, they usually have lovely carvings. Woodcraft is a common pastime. Stonecraft, too.”

“I’ll keep an eye out. See you at supper?”

Robin made a vague noise that sounded like agreement. The prince turned to leave--

“Can I ask you something?”

Something about his tone set the prince’s nerves on edge. “Uh-oh. Should I be nervous?”

“…why did you come to my aid when I was under attack in Southtown?”

“Well…because you were under attack?” That hardly seemed difficult. 

“…that’s all?”

“Should there be more?”

“Did you never stop to consider that it might be a trap?” The tactician stared hard at the floor, his hands running nervously along the edges of his books. 

“That’s what I have Frederick for,” Chrom smiled. 

“But why didn’t--”

“If I see someone in need, I’m going to help them," the prince said. “That’s just who I am, and there’s no changing it. Or would you rather I’d left you there to be gutted by bandits?”

“No, of course not! I’m thankful for what you did, I truly am,” Robin insisted. “But it…it scares me, all the same. Chivalry and longevity rarely go hand in hand.”

“So you said before,” Chrom laughed. “I wish I had a gold coin for every time I got this lecture.”

“I…I’m afraid I can only offer advice. But you should be more careful in the future.”

“I’m sorry, but no,” the prince said firmly. “If it happened again today, I’d do the exact same thing.”

“But--”

“Peace, Robin. I’ve heard your counsel, and I know you mean well. But as I said, this is who I am. I can’t change that, nor would I want to.”

“…I understand,” the tactician murmured, bowing low. “I respect your decision, Captain. But…please try to be careful. For m…for _our_ peace of mind, if not your own?”

“…I will,” Chrom agreed, patting the tactician’s shoulder. “I promise.”

Robin smiled, waving as the prince closed the door behind him. As he made his way back toward the meal hall, he mulled over everything he’d learned about the Shepherds’ new tactician that morning -- which, really, amounted to nothing. The man was a bottomless wellspring of information, but had he actually revealed anything new about himself? 

…well, that last bit was quite surprising. Perhaps Frederick’s distrust stemmed from the fact that they were too alike. The great knight had voiced his concerns about the attack on Southtown being staged on more than one occasion -- but hearing it from Robin was the last thing Chrom would have expected. 

Cautious in the extreme. That seemed to sum up the tactician. But even that wasn’t precisely new, after his guidance at the Longfort. No, it was his slip at the end. The one he’d covered up with such haste. He might try to hide it behind caution, but his loyalty ran quite deep -- and likely all the more for the Shepherds’ intervention at Southtown. 

By the time he managed to find his way out of the Feroxi stronghold, Chrom’s smile had returned. Frederick and Robin might worry to distraction about vague, distant threats, but he knew it came from a good place. And it gave him the freedom to focus on more pressing matters. Like what to buy for Emmeryn as a memento of their time in Ferox.

***

True to his word, the tactician resumed their training early the next morning. He’d tried to avoid drawing up a schedule during his day of rest, but as the hours wore on, it became harder and harder to pull his thoughts away from strategy, until it consumed his waking mind. And then his sleeping one. Tactical dreams were never restful.

But the break had been well-timed. The Shepherds returned energized, attacking their exercises with enthusiasm and even _enjoyment,_ much to Robin’s surprise. They sparred well, taking advantage of their weapon strengths, and those of their partners -- and, shockingly, they didn’t even argue when he paired them off (though Sully did give him a filthy look when he allied her with Virion for a round -- at least until she wound up winning). 

By the following afternoon, they managed to survive three laps of the Feroxi team course, which put them all in high spirits for the evening meal. Hearing that they had another break before the tourney lifted them higher still. 

Of course, that did nothing for his own nerves. They had made fine progress in so little time, and though he wasn’t bursting with confidence, he felt more assured of their chances than he had when they arrived. But none of that would matter if he steered them wrong. 

The thought that they might lose frightened him. While they might appeal to the West-Khan even still, there was no guarantee they would provide aid for Ylisse in the event of a Plegian attack. Flavia had committed. Perhaps selfishly, in the hopes of securing command of Ferox, but she had committed nonetheless. 

Defeat had never been an option. But now the prospect loomed, and Robin found solace only in preparing for the coming trial. 

He slept poorly, but woke full of nervous energy. He would collapse after the tournament -- but until then, that anxiety would keep him sharp. 

The great hall was rowdier than usual as he took his place at the table. Feroxi warriors cycled past, offering advice and encouragement in equal measure, along with a heaping dose of vulgar language directed at the West-Khan. Robin paid little attention as he ate his meal, tasting as much as he heard of the conversation around him. 

The hall went still. Robin finally looked up from his bowl to see Flavia standing on a table in the center of the room, dressed in scarred red and silver armor with a gleaming sword in hand. 

“Listen well, warriors!” she shouted. “Today we march west to battle our rivals and wrest the title of ruling khan from his hands. We place our trust and our fate in the arms of our champions, the prince of Ylisse and his brave soldiers. Fight hard, Champions!”

“Fight hard!”

The rafters shook in the wake of the Feroxi’s collective battle cry. The mounting pressure crushed the breath from the tactician’s lungs, and he struggled to keep his composure. 

“The West-Khan holds the high ground, but I know our champions can prevail. And when they emerge victorious, the east will reclaim her rightful place, and the children we welcomed through our gates will return home as warriors! For glory!” she cried, raising her sword.

“For glory!” the Feroxis echoed, striking their tables. 

“For power!” 

“For power!” they repeated, drawing their weapons. 

“For Ferox!”

“For Ferox!” they shouted, rising to their feet as one.

“We fight!”

The battle cry that accompanied their rush from the hall left Robin’s ears ringing. As the dust cleared, Flavia approached the Shepherds, her mouth drawn again into that sharp feline grin. “Well, Champions? Are you full of fire and ready to fight?”

“We are,” Chrom answered, his confidence bolstering the tactician’s frayed nerves. 

“Then we march.” Gesturing for them to follow, the East-Khan made her way through the winding halls of the Feroxi stronghold and back to the great doors that roared across the stone to welcome them. 

“Choose your six, Prince Chrom,” she said. 

“Six?” The Shepherds stared at the arena and the nine men in the West-Khan’s regalia waiting for them. 

“He has the high ground,” Flavia shrugged. “But six should be plenty. Fight hard.”

As the East-Khan moved into the arena to address the crowd, the captain turned to Robin. “What does she mean, he has the high ground?”

“Feroxi tradition,” he muttered. “In the old days, this fort belonged to the ruling khan of Ferox. It’s set on the highest hill in the area, making it difficult to assail. The ruler changed when another force stormed the fort and seized it. Eventually the bloodshed and the feuding got out of hand and the fortress was divided into east and west, with the ruler decided by tournament in the arena. Tradition dictates that the ruling khan holds the high ground, but in a flat arena, you can’t have a territorial edge, so the ruling khan gets a few extra men instead.”

“Gods damn -- that hardly seems fair.”

“It’s not a true Feroxi tradition if it’s not difficult to overcome,” Robin sighed. 

“Six it is, I suppose,” the prince growled. “Who will it be?”

The tactician scanned the field. The West-Khan’s champions had spread across the arena in matched pairs: fighters closest to the East-Khan’s side, mages at the edges of the arena halfway down the field, lancers and fighters both guarding the west gate -- and at their head, a man wielding a Valmese blade. The Killing Edge, they called it. 

Gods help them. 

“You, Lissa, Vaike, Stahl, Miriel, and myself. Captain, you and Vaike charge up the field to take care of the lancers. Stahl and Miriel will keep the fighters and the mages occupied. I’ll assist and cover Lissa.”

“Are you sure?” Chrom asked. 

“Do we have a choice, with our limited numbers?” the tactician replied. 

“…I suppose not,” the prince murmured. 

A loud cheer rose outside as Flavia lifted her sword. “I think that’s our cue,” Chrom said. “Let’s go.” They followed their commander out into the bright arena, the crowd behind them roaring in support while the spectators across the field jeered in opposition. 

“Make ready!” Flavia shouted behind them. The prince drew his sword, and Robin’s heart raced as he followed suit. The blade felt unwieldy in his hands, but there was little he could do about that now. 

“Champions, we fight!”

A great cry rose from the warriors crowded around the upper levels of the arena as the Shepherds charged the West-Khan’s men. Stahl and Miriel engaged the first of the axe-wielders as Chrom advanced across the arena with Vaike at his side, Robin following close in their wake to give every impression of a dual assault on the western commander. 

The bluff drew the mages from their posts, closing in with spellbooks in hand. “Stay close,” the tactician murmured, veering off course to engage the closer of the two tome wielders. Caught off-guard, the mage scrambled to maintain a safe distance between them -- too late, though, as Robin’s lunge tore through his light armor. 

The return fireball singed his coat, but he managed to raise his arms in time to avoid being struck in the face. Even so, the heat stole his breath, burning his throat as he moved to pursue the spellcaster before he could escape out of range--

“Robin!”

The tactician turned, bringing his sword up just in time to block a fighter’s axe. Even with his palm supporting the blade, the force of the blow brought him to his knees; the warrior sneered, pressing his advantage--

Robin twisted to the side, the axe sliding along the blade and deep into the tiled floor. Stunned, the fighter struggled to free his weapon, even as the tactician’s sword cut deep into the man’s side -- but not deep enough to stop him; in the next moment the man ripped his axe from the ground, blood staining his pants from hip to bootcuff as he advanced. But the blow had slowed him. As the fighter readied his weapon to strike, Robin’s hands tightened on the hilt of his sword, waiting for his opening.

It came in the axe-wielder’s great overhead swing. Good for force, but not for blocking. Darting under the man’s guard, the tactician cut into his uninjured side, twisting to parry a return blow that did not come: the axe fell first, followed by the warrior.

“Thanks, Lissa,” he said, turning back to the cleric to find her smiling face haloed in flame.

No time. Grabbing the princess’ arm, he pulled her behind him, lifting his arm to block the mage’s fireball--

Too slow. Flames burned across his sword arm, his blade clattering to the ground as the spell ate through glove and skin alike. He’d nearly forgotten this kind of pain. 

But not entirely. Pulling the Thunder tome from his coat, Robin fired a return volley as he fell to his knees, the spell tracing a crackling arc through the air and felling the mage with a solid strike to the chest. 

Gods, but it hurt. 

He could hear Lissa’s voice, vaguely, but couldn’t quite grasp the words. The tactician cradled his injured hand, trying to keep it still and biting back the urge to scream at each involuntary twitch. He didn’t want to look. He feared what he would find if he did. 

As the pain subsided from screaming agony to a whimpering ache, the princess’ words finally began to break through. “Oh, Gods, Robin, that looks really bad.”

“Thank you, Lissa,” the tactician grated out. “I would never have guessed. We should move, they’ll need help--”

“Dummy, _you’re_ the one that needs help!” Even as he tried to struggle back to his feet, the princess shoved him back down to the ground. Had she always been this strong, or was he just weak from pain?

Likely a bit of both. 

“Why’d you do that?” she grumbled. “That was a really stupid thing to do.”

“You’re still the most important person in the game,” Robin chuckled, gasping as she pulled his hand closer. “I-it’s just a mu-uch more da-angerous version. Besi-ides, he was aiming for your hea-ad.”

The princess flattened her pigtails in mock alarm. “Hair grows back, silly!”

“And fire hurts like hell,” he hissed.

“O-okay, just hold still, alright?”

“I’m trying as hard as I can,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut tight again. The pain eased, but did not vanish, as Lissa channeled her magic through the staff and into his scorched hand. But the relief was welcome, and being able to curl his fingers without doubling over seemed more than worth a bit of lingering--

“Whoa, what’s that?”

His heart stopped. One glance was all he needed to confirm his fears. 

Six violet eyes stared out through the lingering char and blistered skin, unnaturally vivid and virtually untouched by the fire. “Did the spell do that?” Lissa asked as he carefully sheathed his sword with his off-hand. 

“No.”

“Where’d it come from?” she pressed as he hurried across the arena to join the other Shepherds. 

“I was born with it.” Gods, was she just playing dumb? She couldn’t possibly--

“Does everyone in your family have it?”

Thankfully, their return to combat precluded his answer. As Stahl’s horse tossed its head, hooves drumming nervously on the tile as a lancer prepared to strike, Robin’s thunder spell arced high into the air before crashing down, crackling through the heavy armor and felling the knight. 

“Where have you been?” the cavalier asked. 

“Waylaid,” Robin huffed. “Lissa?”

The princess cast another glance at him, but did not argue as she turned to mend the deep cuts along Stahl’s forearms. The tactician sensed that the conversation was not over, but the reprieve at least gave him time to prepare. 

He looked up at the crash of steel. They’d nearly claimed the field now: only the western commander remained, and the captain’s blade rang as they traded blows, parrying and feinting, dodging and thrusting with frightening speed. He’d seen Chrom’s swordplay only in brief glimpses and simple sparring with makeshift swords. Now he found himself mesmerized by their vicious ballet. Unable to keep up with their speed, Vaike had fallen back, wringing his axe handle as he waited for a chance to strike. 

As they leapt apart, Robin realized that neither man had gone unscathed. Blood stained their clothes from shallow nicks and deep scores alike. The next blow might well decide the victor. 

It might also determine who walked away from the tournament alive. 

The tactician edged forward. “Captain--”

“Hang back,” Chrom called. “I can handle this.”

Robin couldn’t find suitable cause to argue. He stopped, his heart pounding as both swordsmen readied their blades for a final attack. Even the crowd above had gone silent. Beyond the flickering light of the braziers, nothing moved.

One heartbeat passed. Then another. And--

It was over in the blink of an eye. The commanders lunged -- but Chrom turned into the enemy’s blow, the blade grating across his pauldron as they passed. Before the West-Khan’s champion could turn, the Ylissean prince’s sword touched the side of his neck. 

The man did not move for a long moment. 

And then his sword fell as he lifted his hands in surrender. 

The arena erupted with cheers and shouts, the spectators clapping and stomping on the stones above the battlefield. Even as the clamor echoed around them, Flavia approached the Shepherds, her own applause drowning out the din. “Well fought! You have my respect. And, more to the point, you have your alliance,” she winked. “I will provide Ylisse with all the soldiers she needs.”

“Truly?” Chrom asked, starting toward the khan (only to be dragged back by his frustrated sister, who promptly resumed her healing). “Thank you, East-Khan.”

“I should thank you!” she laughed. “It feels like ages since I’ve held full power. Come, my champions! Tonight, we celebrate!”

Turning on her heel, Flavia bounded back across the arena, a true spring in her step. She really must be pleased--

“Any excuse for a party, and Flavia jumps on it,” a rough voice huffed behind them. 

The shepherds turned to find a stranger among them. Feroxi, clearly, from his dark complexion and muscular build, but the bald pate and eyepatch were unfamiliar. “I’m sorry, have we met?” the captain asked. 

“I’m Basilio, the West-Khan you so rudely removed from power!” the man grumbled. “You’re handy with a sword, boy. I thought for sure I’d picked the stronger man.”

“He fought well,” Chrom agreed as the West-Khan helped his champion to his feet. “It was no easy victory.”

The heavy clanking of Frederick’s armor gave him away as he joined them on the far side of the arena. “Milord? If our business here is concluded, we had best return home. The exalt will want news of our alliance immediately.”

“Right as always, Frederick,” Chrom sighed.

“Hold, boy.”

The prince turned back at Basilio’s call. Something about his smile reminded Robin a bit too much of Flavia in that moment. “Before you go, I have a little present for you.”

He gestured to his champion, who walked forward without a word. “This is Lon’qu. Not much for talking, mind you, but he’s peerless with a sword -- as you damn well know by now.”

“Hey, aren’t you even gonna fix him up first?” Lissa asked, moving toward the man with staff in hand--

The West-Khan’s champion recoiled with a grimace. “Away, woman!”

“Hey! W-what did I say?” Lissa demanded, stomping her boot on the tiled floor. 

Basilio laughed, clapping the swordsman on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him. “Let’s just say that ladies tend to put Lon’qu on edge. Nonetheless, he is capable. Perhaps he even has the makings of a khan.”

That would be a surprise. A foreigner leading Regna Ferox? Robin would pay to see that. Still, the West-Khan’s pride shone through loud and clear -- and Lon’qu’s back straightened, his own spirits clearly lifted by the praise. 

“Consider him West Ferox’s contribution to the Ylissean cause,” Basilio said.

“You’re certain about this?” Chrom asked.

“Yes, yes,” the West-Khan replied. “He’s your man now.”

“And Lon’qu?” The prince turned to the swordsman, who met his eye steadily. “You have no objections?”

“He gives orders. I stab people. I think our roles are clear.”

Oh. Well. Valmese or not, he certainly had the Feroxi mindset.

“…alright, then. Welcome aboard,” the captain chuckled, offering his hand. Lon’qu gripped Chrom’s wrist firmly in return. 

“Now, I’d suggest you run if you want to leave Ferox tonight, but I doubt you’ll escape before Flavia’s party -- that woman won’t let you off without a proper Feroxi send-off,” the khan chuckled. 

“Hey, Old Man!” Flavia called from the eastern gate, her voice ringing through the arena. “Get your withered ass over here! The party can’t start without your concession speech.”

“Fuck you, Upstart!” Basilio roared back. “I’ll get there when I damn well feel like it!”

Ah, Feroxi banter. Nothing in the world quite like it. 

As they made their way to the gate, Robin buried his hands deep in his coat pockets. There would be questions, surely -- but far less than he’d face if he displayed the mark for all to see. An injury would satisfy them.

The truth might hang him.


	6. Threat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Shepherds return from their diplomatic mission, only to find that Plegia's incursions have grown more aggressive. When negotiations sour, another war seems imminent -- but troubling revelations put Robin at risk before the battles even begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Warnings: Violence, Blood, Death**
> 
>   
>  I've been looking forward to this chapter for a while.
> 
> Not as much outright world building here, now that we're out of Ferox. More fighting and playing around with local flora and fauna, though, which is pretty fun in its own right. There's a bit of a diversion from the game chronology, since I really wanted some time to play with family dynamics, and jumping in three lines of dialogue from _we're back from Ferox_ to _go west young prince_ doesn't really leave a lot of time for that. 
> 
> ~~Somehow this chapter wound up being almost as long as the last one but _it doesn't feel like it should be how did it come out at 9k words I didn't think I wrote that much_?~~
> 
> More perspective shifts this chapter. Dashes (-) still indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

They did not manage to flee Regna Ferox before the party. The carousing went on well into the night, and even from his room Robin could hear the festivities from the great hall. But come morning, Flavia happily saw them off in the wagons that deposited them at the Longfort, where the Feroxis treated them to one last feast before sending them off through the gates. They made good time in the journey south from the border, and everyone looked forward to a respite, however brief, in the halidom’s capital. 

Well, most everyone. 

The tactician could not say that he knew the Shepherds well. Not yet, at least. But he knew some simple truths about them: Sumia was clumsy, Miriel could make anything into an experiment, and their captain was prone to breaking things by accident. And Lissa was cheerful to a fault, brightening the spirits of everyone around her. 

But as the march drew closer to Ylisstol, the princess had grown quieter and quieter. She still smiled and laughed, of course, but she went out of her way to do so, withdrawing from the company as they traveled southward. 

It worried him. Such a drastic change in mood could be a symptom of illness, or some mental turmoil, and such distraction could prove dangerous to her and everyone around her in battle. …but more than that, seeing such a vivacious girl become so distant saddened him in a way he couldn’t quite understand. 

So when Lissa retreated from camp one evening, Robin followed. She did not go far, keeping the light of the campfires in view, but when she stopped the sounds of laughter and conversation had faded into silence. She glanced back only once before sitting on a fallen log, resting her chin in her hands and staring off into the dark woods.

And there he hesitated, hovering in the shadow of the trees, wondering what exactly had drawn him here. They hadn’t continued the conversation from the arena, and he loathed reopening that door -- and more than that, he barely knew the girl, what could he possibly say to help her--

“W-who’s there?”

The princess turned toward him. There seemed no point in trying to hide. Even if she hadn’t seen him, it would only make her uneasy if no one answered. So the tactician moved out of the brush, taking a seat beside her and looking down at the dark leaves littering the ground. Neither spoke. Robin wondered if he should say something to break the silence, or try to put her at ease--

“How’s your hand?” she asked. 

He flinched, his fingers curling instinctively around the injury. “Better,” he assured her, trying to ignore her doubtful look. He’d wrapped it with linen at the first opportunity, and admitted freely that he’d taken a bad blow in the tournament -- but it really had begun to improve. The blistering had subsided, the dark scorching had lightened considerably, and though his skin was still too tender to allow him to wield a sword or wear a glove, he could at least hold his tableware at supper. Small favors. 

“Are you sure? I can treat it again, if you need,” she insisted. 

“That’s all right,” he murmured, letting his fingers run across the soft bandages. “Thank you, though.”

Silence again. Lissa kicked her boots in the air as she folded her hands one way, then the other. He probably should say something. He just wasn’t sure _what_ to say, exactly. Talking to people -- well, more specifically starting a conversation with someone -- was not his area of expertise…

“Why are you out here?” she asked.

“You looked troubled,” he replied. “I thought…you might want someone to talk to.”

He glanced toward the princess to find her staring at him. “You noticed?”

“…hasn’t anyone else?” the tactician asked, glancing toward the faint glow of the camp. He’d not heard anyone speak of it, but her behavior hadn’t been subtle--

“Nobody’s said anything,” she mumbled. “I thought I was hiding it pretty well.”

“…so you are troubled.” She nodded, fussing with the buttons dangling from her headband. “…is it…something you want to talk about?”

The princess did not speak. Oh, Gods, had he pushed too hard? Answering questions was so much easier than trying to ask them--

“You never answered my question.”

He frowned, turning his stare down to his hands as he folded them gently in his lap. “The one in the arena?”

She made a vague noise of assent. “About whether everyone in your family has that mark.”

“…something like it,” he admitted.

“Are you telling the truth?” she asked. 

“Of course--”

“You swear?”

“Yes, wh--”

“ _Pinky_ swear,” she insisted, shoving her hand with an upraised pinky toward him. “That you won’t lie to me, about _anything._ ”

That seemed a dangerous promise to make. 

But he’d grown tired of lies and half-truths. Maybe this would be good for him.

“I swear,” he repeated, curling the pinky of his bandaged hand around hers. She continued to glower at him for a moment before settling back, her hands fisting in her apron. 

“So…so they all have the mark?” she repeated. 

“Not exactly like it,” he sighed. “But they’re all similar.”

“And…and it’s important?”

His breath caught in his throat. But he had promised. “Yes,” he whispered, curling his gloved fingers around the back of his bandaged hand and wishing he could remove the mark as easily as discarding those linens. 

“You’re lucky.” 

Robin nearly choked. _Lucky_ was not a word he’d ever dream of using. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not a disappointment.”

He stared at Lissa as she began to worry her skirts. “Y-you know that mark my brother has on his arm? And the one my sister has on her forehead?”

The tactician nodded. The brand of the exalt was quite famous -- or infamous, depending on who was asked and their feelings about the last war. 

“Everybody in my family has that mark, too. My dad, and my big sister, and my big brother. But…but mine never appeared.”

…oh. 

_Oh._

“I don’t remember my parents,” she mumbled. “They died while I was still a baby. Emm and Chrom have been taking care of me since I was little, and they’ve never said anything about it, b-but…”

She sniffed thickly. Robin froze, unsure of what to do. How exactly did someone comfort a crying princess? “You feel like you don’t belong?” he ventured softly.

“L-like I’m not rea-a-ally their siste-er at a-a- _all,_ ” she sobbed, scrubbing at her eyes with the heel of one hand. “I d-don’t ha-ave the b-br-brand to pro- _ove_ it, a-a-and…”

“That’s silly.”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his lips. Her head came up, and even through the dark he could see the glistening trails her tears had left down her cheeks. “H-how can you sa- _ay_ that!?”

“Well. It is.” Fishing about in his pocket, the tactician removed a clean handkerchief and offered it to Lissa. She took it in a shaky hand, blowing her nose loudly before drying her eyes with a corner. “You’re still their sister, regardless of whether your brand emerged, or even if you share the same blood. They’ve always been there for you, haven’t they?”

“Y-yes, but--”

“No buts,” he said. “Family is not about blood. Family is about heart. It’s the people you love, and who love you back. It’s the people who would give anything to protect you, and who you would risk everything to help. Does that sound like you and your brother and sister?”

Lissa mumbled incoherently. Gods, he must be terrible at this. 

But still, he forged ahead. “I’m not trying to say that you’re not their sister by blood,” he explained. “I see a great deal of the exalt in you -- your hair, your eyes, your face, especially -- so likely it’s simple chance that the mark never surfaced. But even if you _didn’t_ carry exalted blood, I don’t think it would matter to them. The person they love is _you._ No blood can change that.”

The princess sniffled again, wiping her nose on the edge of the handkerchief. Still no words, though. Had he somehow made things worse?

“Do you…do you think I’d be a different person? If my brand had appeared?”

…Robin paused. That was an interesting question. “In small ways, perhaps,” he admitted. “You’d likely be more confident about your status as princess, with proof that you share Chrom and Emmeryn’s bloodline. I don’t know what it was like for you, growing up, but...I somehow doubt you’d change more than that, if your siblings were your role models. You’re a good person, Lissa. You’re kind. You’re cheerful, and friendly, and everyone smiles when you’re around. Even Vaike, until you insult him, but he still smiles the next time he sees you, doesn’t he?”

“…I guess so,” she sniffled, mustering up a faint smile. 

“The measure of a person’s worth should never be their bloodline,” he murmured, covering his bandaged hand. “A person’s worth should be determined by the things they do in their lives. And your worth is great. The things you do may be small, but they bring happiness to people. And so much joy, even if it comes a little at a time, is invaluable. …so don’t fret. Alright?”

The princess scooted closer, wrapping her arms around his elbow. “Well, if I’m worth that much, I bet you are, too,” she giggled. “…thanks, Robin.”

He didn’t have the heart to argue with her as they made their way back through the sparse woods to the Shepherd’s camp. He knew the meager measure of his worth, and had for many years. 

…and yet, her faith eased the ache that knowledge gave him. Perhaps, if someone so good could believe the best in him…maybe there was hope for him, after all.

***

The Shepherds returned as twilight fell on Ylisstol. Emmeryn could not have been happier to welcome her brother and sister back home. The shining smiles on their faces spoke of the hardships they’d endured, and the triumphs they had claimed through them, and the exalt looked forward to hearing their news.

Arranging a feast on so little notice would have the cooks up in arms, but she had faith they would deliver the very best Ylisse could offer. And while the soldiers took their supper in the dining hall reserved for guests of utmost importance (because truly, those men and women were the bravest and most worthy diners the hall had seen in some time), Emmeryn called her siblings to eat with her in the privacy of her chambers, as they had so often in their youth. 

As the servants who bore the meal to her rooms retreated, the exalt turned to smile at her siblings. “I take it Regna Ferox will support Ylisse?” she asked as they attacked the food before them with ravenous gusto. Her brother nodded, his mouth too full to speak more than a mumble. “Thank you, Chrom,” she laughed. “I knew sending you was the right choice.”

He chewed with difficulty and managed to swallow before trying to speak. “You should see Ferox’s warriors!”

“They’re all _huge!_ ” Lissa cried, throwing her arms out wide for emphasis and nearly losing her roll of bread. “The women are all bigger than Sully!”

“My!” Emmeryn gasped. “I can scarcely imagine it.” 

“And it was so _cold!_ ” her sister added, shivering for emphasis. “It snowed! It’s not even winter yet and everything was covered in snow!”

“Except the arena,” Chrom mumbled through another mouthful. 

“Oh, yeah!” Lissa cried. “It had this big hole in it like a skylight, only it wasn’t covered at all, but the whole arena was clean -- oh, and it was so pretty, Emm! The floor had this pattern made of colored stones, it was amazing! I don’t know how they keep it looking like that when they fight so hard.”

“I bet they have to replace parts of it,” her brother offered. 

“They probably have to do it a lot. I saw an axe get _stuck_ in the floor, it broke _right through stone!_ ”

“They sound quite formidable,” the exalt murmured. 

“Perhaps now our people will be safe from Plegia’s incursions,” Chrom said. “With Ferox’s might to back us, they’ll get more than they bargained for if they think they’re striking a weakened foe.”

Emmeryn glanced up from her soup. “What makes you say that?”

“Hm? Oh, it was a conversation I had with Robin.”

“Your new tactician, yes?” He nodded, resuming his meal at a thankfully less frenzied pace. “Has he been as useful as you imagined?”

“All that and more!” her brother laughed. “He’s not much for talking, but once you get him started he’s a wellspring of knowledge.”

“But you can actually understand what he’s saying, unlike Miriel,” Lissa agreed. 

“He learns a great deal from books, but he grew up in Ferox. He knows the traditions, the customs, the training -- he saw us through the tournament without losing a man.”

“Tournament?” Emmeryn repeated. “What tournament?”

Her siblings glanced between themselves. “We…kinda sorta had to…do a little fighting,” Lissa said, picking the soft innards out of her bread. 

“Chrom!” the exalt chided. “This was meant to be a _peaceful_ diplomatic mission--”

“I know, I know!” He held his hands up to placate her, and though she would have preferred to press her point, Emmeryn subsided so that he might speak. “Ferox isn’t like Ylisse. We’re not even through the harvest yet and it’s snowing in Ferox. It takes a lot to survive up there, and they work together to make the most of the time they have. They’re strong, and they respect strength more than nice words -- they _trust_ strength, because speech can lie. Plegians have been impersonating Ylisseans and causing trouble at the border.”

“Why would they do such a thing?” the exalt asked. 

“Robin thinks it was to keep Ferox from supporting Ylisse,” her brother explained. “With all the history between our nations, Plegia still views Ylisse as its greatest enemy, and your move to decrease our military force probably looks like a great opportunity to them. If we ally with Ferox and get their army to bolster our defenses, they lose their opportunity, so by creating bad blood between Ylisse and Ferox we remain weak to Plegian attacks.”

“Your tactician seems quite well-versed on political matters,” the exalt murmured.

“He’s _great!_ ” Lissa insisted. 

“He can be as harsh as Frederick when it comes to training, but it paid off,” Chrom added. “We got our alliance, after all. I don’t think we’d have been so lucky without him.”

“And he’s really nice, and brave, too,” her sister said. “I mean, he protected me in the tournament, even though it meant he got burned really badly. He couldn’t hold his sword after.”

“Is that what happened?” her brother asked. “I saw the bandage, but he didn’t say much about it. I told him to have you take a look.”

“I fixed it up for him in the first place,” Lissa grinned. “He’s got a weird mark on the back of his hand.”

“What kind? He had it wrapped up by the time I even noticed something happened.”

“It was purple, and it had these crazy eye shapes.”

Emmeryn frowned. “Six of them?”

“Hey, yeah. How’d you know?” Lissa asked.

“Did it look something like this?” Fetching a piece of parchment and a quill from the edge of the table, the exalt hastily sketched a simple design on the page, offering it to her siblings to see. 

“Yeah! That’s it exactly! How’d you know?” her sister asked as Chrom squinted at the drawing. 

“It’s something I saw in many of the books I read as a child,” Emmeryn replied, hoping that would be enough to satisfy Lissa’s curiosity. 

“I don’t remember anything from the books I read back then,” her brother remarked. 

“That’s because you didn’t _read_ any,” her sister teased, which started them bickering. Ordinarily she would find it amusing. But Lissa’s confirmation troubled her deeply. In the last years of the war, she had heard their father speak of rumors, but none had ever been verified as truth--

The door swung open without warning and Phila rushed inside, her face pale and her brows drawn down in a troubled frown. “Your Grace!” the pegasus knight cried, bowing deeply. “M-milord! Forgive me, but I bring alarming news!”

“Phila! Slow down, please,” Emmeryn insisted, rising from her chair. “What’s happened?”

“Plegian soldiers have been sighted inside our southwest border!” her captain replied frantically. “They attacked a village in Themis and abducted the duke’s daughter.”

“B-but that would be…Maribelle!” Lissa cried, scrambling upright. “Chrom, we have to do something!”

“There’s more,” the pegasus knight warned. “King Gangrel of Plegia claims Lady Maribelle invaded _his_ country. He demands we pay reparations for this _‘insult.’_ ” 

“And we’re to believe a dastard like the Mad King of Plegia?” Chrom growled.

“Peace, Chrom,” the exalt murmured. “We must keep our wits about us.”

“We should put a sword in his gut and be done with it!” her brother snapped, touching Falchion’s hilt. “The Mad King has been trying to provoke a war with Ylisse at every step! He won’t stop until he drags this whole continent to hell with him.”

“I agree with the prince, Your Grace,” Phila said. “We must demonstrate to Plegia that such actions have consequences.”

“I understand your feelings, Chrom. Truly I do,” Emmeryn said gently. “But if we give him the war he wants, then we lose, no matter what the outcome. Our last conflict nearly ruined the halidom. It left Ylisseans homeless and starving. We cannot repeat that mistake. I will offer parley with King Gangrel.”

“Emm, no! You can’t!” Lissa insisted.

“Please reconsider, Your Grace,” her captain cautioned. “He cannot be trusted to act in good faith!”

“So we either choose to march to war or leave Lady Maribelle to die?” 

She had not meant to raise her voice. It silenced them all, and the exalt calmed herself with a slow breath. “No. I will not accept that.”

“…forgive me, Your Grace,” Phila murmured, bowing again. “I spoke out of turn. I know you will stand always by your own principles. Pray, allow the pegasus knights to accompany you, though.”

“I’m going, too,” Chrom growled. “Someone has to save you from your good intentions.”

“And I want to be there for you _and_ Maribelle,” Lissa said.

“As you wish,” Emmeryn agreed. “Thank you all. Your strength will be mine.”

As her siblings raced from her chambers, the exalt felt her spirits fall. She had wanted nothing save peace for her people, for her _family,_ yet at every turn they were harried by the sins of their father. And now this stranger with the mark had insinuated himself within her brother’s Shepherds. What havoc he could wreak, directing their soldiers into danger…

No. She could not allow herself to be trapped in such thoughts. The truth would emerge in its own time. 

She could only hope it did before tragedy struck them down.

***

They didn’t even make it through the meal before their captain rushed in with new marching orders. Robin had expected at least a day’s rest -- but then, he had also expected that news of Ylisse’s alliance with Ferox would spread quickly enough to preclude a Plegian attack.

They made ready with haste, pausing only when Chrom turned away a boy in mage robes that had hurried to join the party. Ricken, he thought the captain called him. Judging by his garb and the few words he heard exchanged, he gathered the boy was the young Shepherd Miriel had mentioned on the first night. 

Likely best that he stayed behind, though. With the Shepherds leaving Ylisstol again and Plegia’s latest attack striking so close to the capital, having a mage to defend the garrison was a sound plan. There was no guarantee that the whole affair was not a ruse designed to leave the palace defenseless, after all. 

They stopped at the foot of the western mountains, camping through the remainder of the night rather than risk the treacherous path by moonlight. Morning still came too soon, and with it a hurried meal before striking off along the rugged cart trails. The exalt’s pegasus knights guided their progress from above -- and, he noticed, Sumia kept a close eye on their movements as she maneuvered her own mount through the air. Had she ever been officially inducted into their ranks? They had stumbled across her pegasus injured on the road to Ferox -- had anyone ever found the rider? Or even identified her? That still troubled him. But somehow less than the idea that their own pegasus knight might not be considered part of Ylisse’s official order. 

In spite of the good time they made, night still fell before they managed to leave the crags. Robin wondered how the exalt fared through all this. Not necessarily the camping (though he was curious how much she enjoyed experiencing her siblings’ daily routine), but the uncertainty that awaited them. Would Maribelle still be unharmed when they arrived? How would their negotiations fare? Would they be forced into battle? If they were, could they still avert open warfare?

He somehow doubted the last. 

They broke camp early the next morning, traversing the increasingly narrow footpaths with care as the border pass loomed through the canyon before them. The closer they drew, the more apparent it became that their neighbors had come prepared for far more than diplomatic negotiations. Wyverns roosted among the cliffs, draped in armor bearing the Plegian crest. Gods, if this took a turn for the worse, it could become very ugly. 

As the Shepherds arrived at the foot of the trail leading into the rugged valley that separated Ylisse and Plegia, the prince raised his hand to them. They halted, staring across the divide: two figures separated from the armed caravan, making their way down into the pass. If the tactician didn’t know any better, he would think that one of them was Plegia’s king in the flesh -- but he had to be imagining things.

“Wait here,” Chrom ordered. 

“Do you think that wise, milord?” Frederick cautioned. “We know not what these blackguards intend.”

“We will meet them peaceably,” the exalt said, her soft voice silencing their dissent. 

“As you command, Your Grace,” the great knight murmured. 

“I’m going with you, Emm,” the captain insisted. 

“Me, too!” Lissa agreed. 

“I will be glad to have you at my side.” Even now, her smile seemed untouched by worry. Robin couldn’t help but envy her composure. “But please, Chrom, take your hand from your sword.”

The prince grudgingly released his weapon’s hilt. He still balled his hands into tight fists, but made no further arguments as the exalt strode to meet the Plegian envoys. 

Though the exalt and her siblings did not venture far, the wind blowing through the canyon carried their words out of earshot. Not that the Shepherds needed to hear to understand what transpired in the pass. The man resembling Plegia’s king waved a hand, and a barbarian with a skull helm lumbered forward, shoving Maribelle ahead of him. She struggled fiercely against both her bonds and her captors -- that, at least, came as a relief. He doubted she’d suffered much more than offense at their hands, if she could fight so energetically. 

That boded ill for the Plegian’s demands. Especially if her detainment had been ordered by King Gangrel himself. The man was not known for his mercy. 

The negotiations grew more animated. More fervent. The Plegian diplomat’s gestures grew increasingly emphatic as Ylisse’s exalt remained perfectly composed. Gods, he wished he could hear what they--

Movement from the cliffs. 

“Make ready,” Robin murmured.

“What?” Sumia asked. “But the captain said--”

“The captain may need us shortly,” he said, keeping his voice low and his movements subtle as he withdrew the tome from his coat. “Be prepared. Phila, ready your pegasus knights to cover the exalt’s retreat--”

“Who are you to give orders?” the woman demanded. 

Robin ignored her. “Frederick, Kellam, on my signal, enter the pass and get the exalt to safety back here. Vaike, you’ll provide the rear guard. Everyone else, assist the captain.”

“I pray it does not come to that,” the great knight murmured. But he watched the cliffs as keenly as Robin. The signs were impossible to mistake.

Three Plegian soldiers charged down the steep slope toward the exalt. The prince lunged, striking the nearest man down with a single blow from his sword; the others hesitated, advancing with greater caution as Chrom brandished his blade. The Plegian envoy--

Wait, hadn’t there been two?

Robin scanned the cliffs. No, she couldn’t have gone far, the pass was too steep -- she had to be closer, and she couldn’t have bypassed the captain, which left --

There. Maribelle struggled as the woman advanced, and none of them could hope to reach her in time, airborne or otherwise. Had they lost this fight before it began? Had this been the Plegian’s plan from the outset? 

The man holding Maribelle flew backwards. A small figure in a wide-brimmed hat rushed from the cliffs in the confusion, hurrying to the noblewoman’s side and freeing her hands. The dark-clad woman advanced -- only to be blown back, providing Maribelle and her savior with an opening to flee. 

“Now!”

They charged without hesitation. Even the pegasus knights, in spite of their commander’s protests. As Frederick and Kellam hurriedly escorted the exalt from the field, the rest of the Shepherds rallied around their captain, weapons drawn. 

“You certainly came prepared,” Chrom muttered as the Plegian force swarmed the cliffs above. “Did you know this was going to happen?”

“I had an inkling when I saw the wyverns,” the tactician replied as the great beasts circled overhead. 

“I’m glad to have you watching my back,” the captain chuckled, and Robin’s heart stumbled. Gods, now really was not the time for that. “So what are our orders?”

“Captain, go with Sully, Stahl, and Lon’qu and take the ridge from the west. Lissa, take care of them.”

“Right!” the princess said, offering a smart salute.

“The rest of us will take the ridge from the east, rendezvous with Maribelle, and keep the enemy from barring our way back. Be careful -- we don’t know what traps they might have hidden.”

“Is that clear?” Chrom asked. “Then move out!”

They scattered, pairing off without hesitation. The Feroxi training really had taken root. As Miriel and Virion cast arrows and fireballs at the men leering over the cliffs, Robin turned to find Sumia at his side and looking rather lost. 

“Mind if I ride with you?” he asked.

“Oh! N-no, of course not! Here.” She offered her hand down, helping to pull him up onto the back of her pegasus. “Hold on tight, now.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. He’d never ridden a winged horse before (nor had he particularly wanted to, given all the inherent dangers involved in flight), and he’d really rather not fall. So he wrapped his arms around Sumia’s waist as the pegasus launched herself into the air, wings pumping fiercely as it propelled them high above the field. 

The height of their ascent made him dizzy when he chanced a glance at the ground. But with an exhilarating rush, he realized that he could see _everything_ going on in the canyon below -- from Lon’qu’s deft swordplay against an axe-wielding barbarian to Sully and the captain overwhelming a dark mage at a battered fort --

“Sumia, down!”

“What!?”

She did not hesitate, in spite of her confusion. The pegasus entered a steep dive, its wings drawn close against its sides, and for a terrifying moment Robin worried they were going to crash -- but as it neared the ground its wings opened again, carrying them in a tight spiral toward the cliffs. 

“There are more hiding in the forts!” he yelled as the Shepherds looked up. “Stay on your guard!”

“There are?” the pegasus knight asked.

“Look out!”

Sumia pulled up on the reins, stopping her mount just before they flew headlong into a waiting axe-wielder’s blade. As the pegasus wheeled, the tactician opened the tome on his arm, calling forth the magic circle and unleashing a crackling bolt. It struck true, but did not fell the man, who raised his axe to retaliate--

An arrow lodged in the brute’s chest, staggering him; the fireball that followed sent him sprawling, and he did not rise again. Robin turned, waving down to Virion and Miriel, who bowed before edging further up the rugged path. 

A gust of wind whistled below. The tactician glanced down to see Maribelle mounted on a small brown horse, the small figure behind her calling forth fierce gales from the tome in his hand.

“Is that Ricken?” he asked. 

Sumia squinted, shielding her eyes from the sun. “Oh my gosh, I think you’re right. Ricken!” she yelled, waving her lance as the pegasus dropped closer. 

“Hey, Sumia!” he called back. “You okay up there?”

“What are you doing here? The captain told you to stay at the garrison!”

“I couldn’t just leave you guys to do this alone!” he protested. “And if I hadn’t been here, what would’ve happened to Maribelle?”

“Conversation later, fight now!” Robin shouted. “Sumia, swordsman!”

“O-on it!” The pegasus knight wasted no time in spurring her winged mount forward, parrying the myrmidon’s sword with a deft flick of her lance. The tactician’s thunder spell caught the tip of the fighter’s blade, magic coursing through steel and flesh alike -- but still he lunged, carving deep wounds in both rider and pegasus. But Sumia did not slow -- adjusting her grip on her spear, she charged forward, the tip of her weapon darting beneath the swordsman’s attempt to block and driving deep into his chest.

Clumsy or not, this was not a woman he cared to cross. 

More Plegian soldiers advanced down the steep incline. “Fall back,” he murmured. “We’ll re-group with Miriel and Ricken and wait for the captain to arrive.”

No arguments there. Sumia retreated, her mount settling at the edge of a small copse by another battered fort. Maribelle tended to both Ricken and Virion’s wounds in the brief lull between waves of enemy forces; in the soft glow of her healing magic, the noblewoman’s expression looked almost gentle. Not that it lasted terribly long, once she saw the blood on the pegasus knight and her winged horse. “ _Heavens,_ what _have_ you been doing, Sumia?” she demanded. “Did you _fall_ into the enemy’s blade?”

“No, he was just fast--”

“Of course, dear, of course.” The noblewoman waved away the pegasus knight’s retort without paying it any mind, calling forth another spell to mend the deep wounds. “Well, now that you lot have been looked after, might we _please_ leave this hideous place? I’ve seen more than enough--”

“Wyvern!”

They scattered just in time to avoid the beast’s razor talons. The dragon screamed as its claws tore through the rocky soil, wings pinioning as it struggled to right itself and take off. The tactician heard Ricken chanting a spell as Sumia’s mount launched into the air again, the wind whipping branches into the wyvern’s face and chest, tangling its wings and preventing it from rising. 

“Look out!” Robin shouted -- too late, though, as the dragon swung its tail, knocking Ricken back with a fierce blow. The wind died and the beast spread its wings wide, rising back into the air as Virion took careful aim--

The pegasus banked hard, narrowly avoiding a shadowy mass of dark energy. Fighting to keep his focus, Robin scanned the ground below, only to lose his bearings as the winged horse turned into a steep dive to avoid another attack. The sorcerer had to be close, if he could just _find_ them--

“There!” The bright glow of a magic circle caught his eye. As Sumia’s mount swerved away from another spell, Robin’s thunder traced a jagged course through the air, striking the dark mage hidden among the rocks and scrub. The pegasus knight followed its arc, her lance cutting down brush and mage alike. 

“Thanks,” Sumia sighed. “I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from, and--”

“Oh, Gods, your arm.” Those were not the words he’d intended to say. But the sight of blood trickling from dozens of tiny cuts swept the rest of his thoughts out of mind. The pegasus’ wing had not fared much better, her feathers tattered and stained with bright flecks of red. 

“I-I didn’t quite manage to avoid that last one,” she chuckled. “You know me, just falling into everything…”

“No, I’d say you avoided the worst of it,” he argued as they settled safely back on the ground. “It could have ripped you apart. Mere surficial damage to one arm after three attacks requires deft maneuvering.”

“…r-really?” She turned to look at him, tears building at the corners of her eyes, and he froze up. Gods, why did everyone cry around him? 

“Yes,” he replied. “You’re quite agile when your focus is in the right place. …don’t let Maribelle bother you.”

She mustered up a smile, scrubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm. “Oka-ay,” she agreed. “I’ll try.”

He couldn’t ask for anything more. Harsh words cut deeper than a blade, after all, and stung more fiercely than salt in the wound. But before he could say more, Sully’s horse raced up beside them, rearing as the cavalier pulled on the reins and very nearly unseating the captain from his place behind her. 

“I take it you fared well?” Chrom asked as the horse tossed his head, drumming his hooves on the rocky ground. 

“As well as can be expected,” Robin agreed. “Is Lissa on her way? Sumia could use a cleric. …and so could both of you,” he added, cringing at the deep gashes in their armor. “Good gods, what happened?”

“Wyvern,” Sully grumbled, rubbing her shoulder. “Damn thing came outta _nowhere,_ almost flew off with my horse!”

“We took care of it before it got far,” the prince added. Good thing, too, given that wyverns preferred to drop their prey from great heights to kill it before they ate. 

“Let’s regroup,” Robin said, pointing toward the grove where they’d last seen the other Shepherds in their band. “We had a run-in with a wyvern, ourselves, before a dark mage demanded our attention -- Ricken took a bad blow, but I think Virion and Miriel might have had it under control--”

“Wait, _Ricken?_ ” the captain repeated as both horses trotted toward the cover of the ragged trees. “I told him to stay at the garrison!”

“He disobeyed,” the tactician shrugged. “But he saved Maribelle in so doing, so consider going easy on him.”

The prince made no promises. But any ire in his expression fell away as they skirted around the corpse of an armored wyvern and its rider, joining Maribelle as she worked her healing magic on the white-faced young mage.

“How bad is it?” Chrom asked.

“I’m a troubadour, Captain, not a doctor,” the woman snipped. “If I had to guess, I’d say the poor boy has a few broken ribs.”

“I-I’m alright,” Ricken muttered, trying to struggle upright only for Maribelle to push him back to the ground. 

“He _will_ be alright, if he does exactly what I say. Now stay still,” the noblewoman ordered. Ricken did not disobey, instead slumping against the tree at his back.

“So what now?” Chrom asked as Maribelle turned her fussing back on the pegasus knight and her mount. “Lon’qu and Lissa should be here soon, they were just clearing out the last fort we ran across. Do we press on?”

“If we don’t, we risk being followed,” the tactician mused. “But it’s not safe to go in blind with these wyverns around. Make ready by the slope up to the next ridge,” he said, gesturing to the steep incline not far from where the dark mage had hidden. “Sumia and I will scout from the air and report back.”

“Be safe up there,” the captain said.

“We will,” Sumia nodded. As Chrom turned to the monumental task of dragging Miriel away from her study of the dead wyvern, the pegasus knight returned to the air, spiraling up over the ridge. Only a few men remained, hiding in the thorny scrub around another dilapidated fortification. A mage, a barbarian, a swordsman…

…hadn’t there been another wyvern?

A shadow passed over them.

“Move!” he shouted. Sumia yelped in surprise, snapping the reins and spurring her mount forward -- just in time to avoid the dragon’s talons as it swept past them. The creature’s wings opened again, propelling it back toward the winged horse as Sumia tried desperately to evade its flight. 

“Not bad, little lady,” a voice called from behind them. Robin glanced back at the wyvern rider, a chill running down his spine at the man’s razor-edged smile. “I won’t ask for your name. Only your life!”

The man lifted a jagged red axe, pulling his arm back to throw it across the span between then. “Left!” Robin shouted. Sumia complied without hesitation, the axe sailing harmlessly past the pegasus’ wingtip; a stream of curses sounded behind them as the beast banked to follow, the rider hefting a second weapon and taking aim--

The dragon screamed and faltered in the air, its wings pinioning strangely. As the winged horse wheeled higher into the air, the tactician saw a bright arrowhead glinting near the base of one of the creature’s wings. 

The wyvern managed to land, rather than crashing into the ground. “Is that your best?” the rider shouted, brandishing his axe. “I’ve faced worms with more bite!”

“Face this!” Chrom roared, driving his blade into the dragon’s neck. The beast did not scream. It did not growl. The only sound it made was the thunder of its corpse falling to the ground, its head lolling over the edge of the cliff. 

“You’ll pay for that, _boy,_ ” the rider growled, cutting himself free of the saddle. “I’ll feed your bloody bones to my next mount!”

He flung the axe, drawing another from his belt as he lunged for the captain -- but Chrom was faster. Evading the man’s throw, he charged, driving his sword into the wyvern rider’s chest as the man prepared his swing. 

The wyvern rider grinned, blood staining his teeth. “This matters not,” he muttered. “Soon war will be upon…your soil…”

The prince grimaced, ripping his blade free. The man fell, still clutching his axe as his blood spilled across the wyvern’s scales. “Is that all of them?” Chrom asked. 

“I didn’t see any more,” Robin murmured. “The rest of them must have retreated back to Plegia.”

“Good. Fall back, everyone.”

They retreated silently from the crags, leaving the bodies for their kin to bury. Approaching the trees where they had left Ricken, they saw Maribelle dismount from her horse and rush to meet Lissa as the princess hurried toward her, both girls flinging their arms around each other in greeting. 

At least some good had come out of this. 

“I’m glad you’re safe,” the tactician said quietly as the Shepherds regrouped.

Maribelle looked up, her eyes narrowed -- but not against the sun. “Who…? Oh, it’s _you,_ ” she sniffed.

“Yes, I know you’re not especially fond of me, but it’s a relief just the same,” Robin sighed. He would have hated to see Lissa lose such a dear friend, even if he didn’t personally understand _what_ she saw in the noblewoman.

“Oh, it’s not a question of _fondness,_ ” Maribelle replied, hugging the princess tight. “I am simply protective of Lissa. My treasure is very sensitive, and…wait. Am I _really_ justifying myself to a _commoner?_ Gods…”

Gods, indeed. The tactician glanced at the cleric, who offered a sheepish smile and a shrug. He found it difficult to grasp how such _drastically_ dissimilar personalities came to be friends. After all, the apparently _sensitive_ Lissa certainly didn’t have problems interacting with -- what did Maribelle call them? _Baseborn oafs?_

“Yes, well,” the noblewoman continued. “I do… _apologize_ for being curt. And…and…” Lissa elbowed her gently. “And you have my thanks for your part in the rescue,” she finished hurriedly. “There, I said it!”

Lissa grinned, offering Robin a conspiratorial wink. And that, at least, made him smile. The princess’ gratitude felt far more honest than Maribelle’s.

Still pale and rather shaky from his run-in with the wyvern, Ricken did not argue when Chrom helped him up onto Maribelle’s gentle horse. While Sumia collected Stahl and Lon’qu from the forts they guarded, the remaining Shepherds picked their way to the floor of the canyon, joining the exalt’s vanguard at the foot of the trail back to Ylisse.

As the prince approached, Emmeryn made her way to the head of the procession, her brow creased with deep concern at the blood staining her brother’s clothes. “It’s not mine,” he assured her -- which, while not _entirely_ true, seemed enough to soothe the exalt’s fears. “…forgive me, Emm,” he muttered, bowing his head. “I acted rashly.”

“It’s all right, Chrom,” she said, touching her brother’s hand. “King Gangrel is the one at fault here. You were only protecting me.”

Gods, that man _had_ been the Plegian king? Robin felt a fierce rush of relief that he’d not been part of the diplomatic proceedings. 

“The Mad King will be rallying his forces, if they have not mobilized already,” Frederick warned. “I suggest we make haste back to Ylisstol and discuss our strategy.”

“Of course, Frederick,” the exalt murmured. “It seems war is upon us. We must protect the Ylissean people at all costs.”

Those words clearly weighed heavy on her mind. He wished he could do something to ease that burden -- but he could think of nothing that might bring her peace. 

As they made their way back along the narrow cart paths, Chrom fell into step beside him. “So? What do you think?”

“Of?” the tactician asked.

“What happened out there. The negotiations, the battle…”

“Well, to be fair, I wasn’t able to hear the diplomacy in action. But I’m almost certain they expected this. They may even have baited you into attacking.”

“You think?” There was a faint note of relief in the prince’s voice at the thought that he might not have been at fault for plunging Ylisse back into war.

“Look at the force we encountered. They must have been planning it from the start,” Robin muttered. “They were too well-prepared. Either they never intended to negotiate or they knew the exalt would never agree to their demands. Those forts would have been well and truly abandoned if the Plegians had intended a peaceful encounter.”

“What about Maribelle?” 

“Given King Gangrel’s reputation, the fact that she remained unharmed implies that she was intended as a bargaining chip from the start. The implied threat, that grave harm would befall her if their demands were not met, was important. Any injury to her would have weakened that message. He might even have let Maribelle go if the exalt met his demands. But I have a feeling that the Mad King would have considered either outcome a victory.”

“…thank you for your insight,” Chrom sighed, patting Robin’s shoulder. “And for your guidance. We owe you our lives.”

The tactician mustered a weak smile. He only hoped the lives he’d helped to save would not be forfeit later.

\-----

The party breathed a collective sigh of relief when they finally left the mountains early the next afternoon. While they might have been able to reach Ylisstol if they’d marched into the night, the exalt called a halt as they left the foothills. With the sun still shining and _everyone_ glad to be on level ground, the Shepherds took their time in pitching tents, building fires, and catching supper.

Robin did not consider himself much of a hunter. Foraging, on the other hand, proved far more rewarding, and the pegasus knights charged with cooking seemed delighted by the wild garlic, onions, carrots, and radishes he brought back. And when the camp began to bustle with activity as the scattered troops returned with game, kindling, and water, the tactician slipped away to think in peace. 

He’d never expected that joining the Ylissean militia would lead him into a war with Plegia. Would it be possible for the halidom’s forces to defend the borders, preventing incursions from their hostile neighbor with the help of Ferox’s warriors? Or would they be forced to strike into Plegia to quell the Mad King’s attacks? If they did, could he possibly justify remaining in Ylisse? 

Gods, what a mess.

A rustle in the brush caught his attention. Turning back toward the camp, the tactician opened his mouth to call a greeting…

…only to have his voice die on his lips as the exalt moved through the trees. “Good evening,” she murmured. 

“G-good evening, Your Grace,” he replied, offering a low bow. 

“Please, Emmeryn is fine,” she laughed. “I’m not much for formalities, and my pegasus knights aren’t here to enforce the point.”

Robin felt a bit of color return to his face. “A-as you say, Emmeryn,” he mumbled. 

She smiled as she came to rest beside him, her hands folded neatly in front of her. “Where are you off to?”

“Just taking a walk,” he said, feeling shy and rather tongue-tied with the exalt’s attention on him. 

“Would you mind if I joined you?” He shook his head, turning back to the trees and moving through the dappled sunlight shining through the leaves. Autumn colors had only recently begun to touch the forests, igniting the canopy while the low growth clung to summer’s soothing shade. Ordinarily Robin loved this time of year. Too much weighed upon his mind now to enjoy it. 

And yet, his burdens seemed light compared to what the woman beside him must endure. He admired her composure as she walked next to him, her expression calm and her face touched by a gentle smile. What occupied her thoughts? The threat of war? A prayer for peace? Or something else entirely?

“My brother speaks quite fondly of you.” 

Soft though it was, her voice still made him jump. “D-does he?”

“Oh, yes. He says you’re quite the genius when it comes to tactics. And politics, for that matter. Perhaps you might consider teaching our ambassadors to Ferox a few things before they next embark.”

“I’d be honored to help, Yo--E-Emmeryn.” Gods, it felt strange to address her by such a familiar name.

“The battle today was quite impressive, as well,” she added. “You seemed quite prepared when the tides turned.”

“The warning signs were difficult to mistake,” he mumbled. Frederick had certainly spotted them, too--

“My sister tells me you have an odd mark on your hand.”

He stopped, the color draining from his face as he gripped his bandaged hand with shaking fingers. Emmeryn remained at his side, saying nothing. Waiting. 

Robin did not move. What could he do? What could he say? 

“May I see it?” the exalt prompted gently.

…what right did he have to refuse?

The tactician stared down at the long-dead leaves littering the forest floor as he offered her his bandaged hand. She cupped it in slender fingers, unwinding the linen with care. Yet it still hurt when her gaze fell on the mark.

He’d never expected this would be his end. He’d imagined hundreds, perhaps _thousands,_ of possibilities, and yet this had never been among them. 

“Do you know what this is?” she asked, her fingertips tracing the violet eyes. He nodded, not daring to speak as his stomach twisted. “Do you know what it means?” He nodded again, his heart lodging in his throat and nearly choking him. “Why do you keep it hidden?”

“It scares people,” he whispered. 

“Does it scare you?” she asked.

He nodded, squeezing his eyes shut tight. 

“Why?” He imagined he heard surprise in her voice. 

“Because they want me to become a monster.” His voice was no more than a whimper, barely audible even to his own ears. “They want to erase me, use me to destroy, to _ruin,_ to bring misery and despair to this world. And I don’t want to.”

“…is that why you came here?” she asked. “So that they could not make you into their monster?”

He nodded, fighting to draw a breath deeper than a sob. 

Her fingers folded around his hand, gentle and secure. “Around the time my brother was born, my father captured a few high-ranking members of the Grimleal and discovered the Eyes. Through them, he learned of their attempts to bring the fell dragon back, and how they needed the Heart of Grima bearing six Eyes to do so. By the last years of the war, he heard rumors that the six Eyes had been found. But I had never seen evidence of it before now.”

“What will you do with me?” the tactician whispered. Perhaps the safest place for him would be the Ylisstol dungeon, though more than likely he’d be executed -- but so long as they destroyed his body…

The exalt began to wrap the bandage around his hand again. 

Robin looked up, too stunned to protest. “My father bore the brand of the exalt. He was a strong man, but closed-minded. He raised the Ylissean army to wage what he called a ‘holy war’ against the Plegian ‘heathens’ who worshipped Grima as their divine. He tried to instill in me that all Grimleal were monsters, bent on destroying the world, and I always thought it so strange. Why would they want to end the world they, too, live in? Why would they want to destroy themselves? 

“I never agreed with my father,” she murmured, tying the ends of the linen into a neat bow. “I had never met a Plegian, but I thought that perhaps they wanted not the destruction of the world, but the destruction of those who attacked and oppressed them. So I studied a great deal of history in my youth in hopes of understanding. Ylisse and Plegia have long been at odds over their religious views, but the Grimleal were not always so bloodthirsty. There were many small villages that held gentler views, and refrained from violence -- and those were the first to fall when Ylisse’s troops marched across the border. I fear my father’s war turned the Grimleal to this. Or if it did not, it fueled their hatred, and made the worst of them far stronger.”

The tactician nodded, rubbing the back of his bandaged hand. Gangrel had certainly done nothing to calm his peoples’ rage. It seemed more likely that he’d fanned the flames, instead. 

“I’ve heard it said that those who do not learn from their history are doomed to repeat it,” Emmeryn murmured, reaching out to touch his hand. “I do not intend to make my father’s mistakes. I do not want this war, but I will fight to defend my people. I will not harm the Plegian citizens, or their lands. …and I will not harm you, Robin.”

“Why?”

He knew he should be grateful. And truly he _was._ But a part of him could not believe that anyone -- _especially_ the exalt -- would release him, knowing exactly who and _what_ he was. 

But she only smiled at him, her hair shining in the golden light. “Because you mean us no harm. You bear us no ill will, no grudge. If you did, you could have ensured that my siblings did not leave that battle alive. But you kept them safe. You could have struck me down at any time while we spoke. But you never raised sword or tome. I am not my father, and I will not make his mistakes. I will not judge someone simply because they were born in another country, or follow a different faith. Your mark does not determine who you are. You decide that for yourself -- and you have proven yourself to be kind and loyal. We will keep you safe.”

_Safe._

How long had it been since he felt truly secure? Likely the better part of a decade, if not more. He’d nearly forgotten that feeling. But as she put her arm around his shaking shoulders, it came flooding back: the sense of peace that remained once fears were put to rest, the warmth and contentment of knowing no danger lurked…

“Thank you,” he whispered, clutching his marked hand to his chest. 

Emmeryn smiled, guiding him gently back the way they’d come. “We’d best return to camp. I imagine Phila will be up in arms if she can’t find me in short order,” she sighed. 

“Y-you didn’t tell them you were going out?” he protested. 

“Oh, they’d never agree to let me go without _someone_ as my guard,” she laughed. “And I doubt we could have had such a nice conversation with someone pointing a spear at you.”

She had a point. 

As they left the cover of the trees and approached the roaring campfire, a bustle of pegasus knights rushed to greet the exalt, pulling her swiftly away. “Where have you been, Your Grace? We were worried sick!” Phila chided. 

“I’m fine,” Emmeryn assured them. “I was taking a nice walk with Robin. He kept me perfectly safe.”

She smiled at him as her guards bore her away, and that sense of peace crept back across his mind. The mark had always seemed his bane, the curse he tried so hard to hide from the world. And now, in spite of it, he’d found acceptance. Security. …perhaps even a chance at friendship. 

For once, he felt at ease as he moved to join the Shepherds at their supper. Learning to trust them might take time -- but now he dared to hope that Ylisse might truly become his home.


	7. Stirrings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the threat of war looming at their backs, the Shepherds leave the capital to reassure Ylisse's citizens, only to find that the budding conflict has made the local rogues more brazen. In their efforts to free a village from a bandit raid, something goes wrong...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Warnings: Violence, Blood, Death**
> 
>   
>  This chapter wasn't even supposed to exist.
> 
> Originally I'd been planning on letting the paralogues exist as background incidents, briefly mentioned but not in detail. But this one, at least, needed to be written. 
> 
> More perspective shifts this chapter. Dashes (-) still indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

The Shepherds collapsed the minute they got back to the garrison. Chrom didn’t blame them. If he hadn’t been needed in talks with Emmeryn and her advisors, he would have fallen in bed and not gotten out for at least a day. 

He hated council meetings. The dusty old men their father had favored clung stubbornly to their positions of power, urging the exalt to take action, wage war, punish any who dared attack the halidom. His sister stood her ground, insisting that they defend their borders and protect their people, nothing more. Ordinarily he’d side with Emmeryn on these matters…but he wanted nothing more than to hunt the Mad King down and run him through. 

He worried that he’d inherited the worst of their sire. 

It made him admire his sister all the more. Even when everyone around her demanded conflict, she still stood for peace. She always had, since they were children. She was the best of them. The strongest of them. She would not bend to despots or madmen, or even to her hotheaded younger brother -- and as frustrating as that could be, he still respected it. 

The meeting adjourned for the day with the fall of twilight. Chrom stretched, rising from his chair as the room emptied. Gods, he could use a hot meal and a good round of sparring with Sully after all that pointless back and forth--

“Might I have a moment?”

He glanced over at his sister as she moved to stand beside him. “Of course, Emm. What is it?”

“I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Anything.” It wasn’t like her to ask favors. Usually it meant she wanted something he wouldn’t like. Too late to take it back, though. The prince braced himself for the worst…

“I need you to take the Shepherds and see to our people.”

“What?” That hardly seemed like a favor. 

“I’m certain word is spreading that war is upon us. We need to reassure the people of Ylisse that they will not suffer as they did during our father’s campaign. They need to know that they are safe, and that they will be protected, not conscripted.”

“Couldn’t you send the pegasus knights to do that?” he asked.

“I could,” she agreed. “But I imagine hearing those words from their prince will comfort them more.”

She had a point there. “Is that the only reason?”

“Well, it would also give you something better to do than sit there looking grumpy,” she laughed. 

He hadn’t been hiding that well, apparently. 

“You’re sure you don’t need me here?”

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” she assured him. “If we somehow reach a consensus before you return, I’ll be sure to send a messenger to find you.”

Chrom smiled at his sister. “Then we’ll make ready to march come morning.”

“Be safe,” she murmured. “And thank you.”

They parted ways, Emmeryn toward her chambers and the prince toward the garrison. After a day cooped up in the palace, it felt good to be out in the brisk autumn air. And it would feel better to be out doing something _worthwhile_ come sunrise. 

The barracks were quiet when he arrived. “Where is everyone?”

“Out enjoying themselves in town, I believe.”

The captain turned to find Robin sitting by the fire, a book open in his lap. “Why aren’t you with them?” he asked. 

“Oh, I’m not much for carousing,” the tactician murmured. “I think Miriel’s around somewhere, and Ricken’s still resting up from that wyvern encounter -- Maribelle’s been taking care of him. Are you looking for Lissa? She headed back to the palace not long ago…”

“That’s alright. I was going to give out our next marching orders.”

“Already?” 

“Emm wants us to spread the word that our fight is only to defend our borders,” Chrom explained. “She thinks it would be best for someone from the ruling house to give the message.”

“Sound logic,” Robin agreed, smoothing the pages of his book. 

His bandage was gone. “New gloves?” the prince asked. 

“Oh, yes,” the tactician chuckled, rubbing the back of his hand. “Lissa bought them for me in the market earlier. I tried to insist that it wasn’t necessary, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“That sounds like Lissa,” Chrom laughed. “So how are you settling in? Is this starting to feel like home?”

Robin said nothing, instead worrying at his new gloves. The prince began to wonder if he’d offended the man somehow when the tactician replied, “I don’t know.”

Not exactly an encouraging answer. 

“I don’t…know what home is supposed to feel like. I don’t feel so much like a stranger anymore, but…I don’t know yet if I fit in.”

“It might help if you went out with the other Shepherds and had some fun,” Chrom pointed out. 

Robin mustered up a vague smile. “As you say. But we have to march in the morning. I’d like to review a few maps and chart an efficient course.”

“Now you’re just avoiding the matter,” the prince muttered. The tactician shrugged, tucking his book under his arm as he rose from the chair. “It wouldn’t hurt to go out for a while. Make friends with them.”

“When we stop next, perhaps,” Robin replied. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Chrom said. 

Another vague smile. “I’ll make sure the orders get out, Captain.”

“Thank you.”

The prince watched as the tactician moved toward the rolls of charts on the far tables. He still had no idea what was going on in that man’s head. But somehow, someway, he’d get Robin to come around.

\-----

Two weeks of marching had taken them through a lot of villages. Small towns and large cities alike met their arrival with impressive crowds, and Chrom and Lissa both had done everything in their power to reassure them all. Some of the people they spoke with were worried, some were angry, some were afraid -- but none of them seemed to want another war.

The prince wished he had a fraction of his older sister’s patience. She could stand for hours, repeating the same reassurances to every citizen who came to her. Chrom got tired of saying the same thing over and over. After a fortnight, he’d be happier never standing in a town square again. He wanted nothing more than to put this damn war to rest so that he could go back to routing bandits. Hell, tending _real_ sheep would be better than this. 

No wonder Emmeryn had called it a favor. 

So when the Shepherds made camp near a town with a popular alehouse, Chrom was more than happy to give his blessing to anyone who wanted to stop in for a pint. Sully, Vaike, and Stahl all jumped at the opportunity, and while Frederick refused to let the prince go without a chaperone, the prince decided that he could endure that, so long as he could drink. 

As they headed toward town, Chrom caught sight of their tactician heading toward the tents. “Robin!” he called. “We’re on our way to the tavern. You should come.”

That vague smile again. It had started driving him crazy. “No, thank you, Captain. There are a few things I’d like to get done before we head out tomorrow, and I really need to--”

“Not tonight, you don’t.” He reached out, tugging on the tactician’s sleeve. “You told me that the next time we stopped, you’d go out with the Shepherds.”

“I said _perhaps_ I would,” Robin corrected. 

“We have nothing going on, and we already have our route for tomorrow planned,” the prince laughed. “It wouldn’t hurt to take some time to relax and get to know people.”

“I appreciate the offer, Captain, but--”

“Why.”

The tactician stopped, looking down at the ground. “I feel out of place.”

“That’s why you should come along,” Chrom insisted. “You can get to know your fellow Shepherds better off the battlefield. Talk to them.”

“I wouldn’t know what to say,” Robin protested. 

“Then just listen. Join the conversation when you feel up to it. Maybe it will help you feel more at home here.”

The tactician sighed, running a hand through his pale hair. “Fine. I suppose a short while wouldn’t hurt.”

“That’s the spirit,” the captain laughed, patting Robin’s shoulder. “Let’s go!”

The alehouse was already packed with customers by the time they arrived. Finding a free place took a bit of luck -- but Robin’s keen eye and Sully’s quick reflexes claimed them a private table by the windows looking out on the main road. Between the music, the warm atmosphere, and the food, everyone agreed that the tavern lived up to its reputation. But it was the dark Ylissean stout they served that truly put everyone -- even Frederick -- in good spirits. 

As Chrom started in on his second tankard, he realized that the tactician had barely touched his first pint. With his hood drawn down over his eyes, he looked more like some villain sent to make a shady deal, rather than a Shepherd out enjoying himself. And perhaps it was just the raucous conversations going on around them, but he hadn’t heard Robin say anything since they sat down. 

As he opened his mouth to speak, the tactician stood up, saying something lost under the laughter of nearby patrons. While Sully and Vaike sang off-key drinking songs and Frederick walked Stahl through the finer points of parrying blows mid-attack, Chrom watched as Robin slipped silently through the busy alehouse and out into the night. 

…maybe this had been a bad idea. 

Glancing once at the other Shepherds, the prince stood and pushed his own way through the crowd, stumbling out into the cool evening. The streets had mostly cleared, with families settled for suppers and friends out making merry. It made spotting the tactician a far cry easier than it might have been otherwise. 

“Robin!”

The tactician paused as Chrom trotted up beside him. “Where are you going?” 

“Back to camp,” he murmured. 

“Why?”

“I’m tired.”

“We’ve barely been out an hour,” the prince protested. 

“It’s been almost two,” Robin corrected. “I’m tired.”

“You hardly did anything, though.”

“I don’t…” The tactician stopped, pulling his hood further down over his eyes. 

“What?”

“I don’t…like places like that. They’re too busy. Too much noise, too many people. I can’t hear what anyone is saying through the din, or be heard if I had anything to say. It’s exhausting.”

He did seem pale, now that Chrom took the time to look. “…I’m sorry. I didn’t think…”

The tactician offered up another one of those vague smiles. “It’s alright. How could you have known?”

They walked side by side down the cobbled streets, listening to the calls and whistles of revelers behind them. “Sounds like someone had a bit much to drink,” the prince chuckled. 

No response. 

The captain shrugged, looking up the hill leading to their camp. “So how would you rather get to know the Shepherds?” he asked, raising his voice slightly as the jeering grew louder. 

“It’s easier to speak to them privately,” Robin murmured, fisting his hand in the sleeve of his coat. “Or around the campfire. But even then, I never know what to say.”

Chrom turned his attention up toward the dark sky. “Well, you’ve been marching and training and fighting with them for weeks now. There must be something to talk about there. You could ask if they’ve seen any interesting shops in the towns we’ve passed through, or found anything they’d like to buy if we return. Or even what meal they’re looking forward to. It doesn’t have to be anything thought-provoking, right?”

When he glanced back at his side, the tactician was gone. 

“Robin?” The prince turned to see a trio of red-faced men surrounding the tactician, shoving him roughly back and forth. “Hey!” Chrom shouted, hurrying back down the street. 

“Why don’cha speak up, Grimmer?” one of the men slurred, pushing Robin into the nearest wall. 

The tactician said nothing. 

“Wha’ssa matter, Grimmer?” another sneered. “Cat got’cher tongue?”

Still nothing. Robin did not so much as look up at them. 

“Fuckin’ Grimmer -- gotta lotta nerve, comin’ here,” the last spat, dragging the tactician down by the collar of his shirt. “I’ll give ya what all yer kind’s got comin’ t’ya--”

The man’s fist rose to strike, and Robin winced. 

The prince caught the drunk’s arm. “Let him go,” he growled. 

“Stay outta this, boy,” one of the men snorted. “Ain’t none’a yer concern.”

“It is my concern,” Chrom said. “That’s my friend. Let him go.”

“Oh, and _you’re_ gonna stop us?” another jeered. “You an’ what army?”

“My _own_ army,” the prince replied coolly, drawing Falchion from its sheath. All three men paled at the sight of steel. It was likely more bravado than he needed, and whether they recognized the weapon as a royal heirloom or not was up for debate. But they still turned tail and ran, hurling insults over their shoulders as they fled. 

“What in the gods’ names was _that_ about?” Chrom demanded, returning the sword to its place at his side. 

“Just some men with hard feelings about the last war,” Robin muttered, brushing his coat off with shaking hands. “I’m sorry for the trouble, Captain.”

“No trouble -- how do you know this is about the war?” he asked. “And why were they calling you Grimmer?”

“My coat,” the tactician sighed. 

“…what about it?” the prince asked. 

“It’s a Grimleal design.”

“-- it is?” He’d never paid much attention to what the tactician wore. It had just seemed like a regular coat to him.

“Yes. The cut, the color, the pattern -- it’s common in Plegia. They likely saw similar garments during the war, before returning home.”

“Why do you wear it if you know it’s Grimleal?” Chrom asked. 

“It was a gift from my mother.” 

“But if wearing it makes you a target for--”

“If I refuse to wear it simply because some bigots think all Grimleal are murderous swine then I’d be insulting her and all she stood for.” For once Robin met his eye steadily. “I’m not ashamed of her, or what she believed in, and I won’t cow to those who think my clothes are all I am.” 

Silence. The tactician wrapped the coat tight around himself, his face mostly hidden by his hood. 

Chrom drew in an unsteady breath. “Robin--”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“That outburst.”

“That’s not something to apologize for,” the prince said. “It was surprising, though. You don’t usually show your feelings.” The tactician offered a weak shrug as he started walking again. “So does that happen often? The heckling?” Chrom asked. 

“Not particularly,” Robin murmured. “Most people assume that I just don’t know what it is, given my age.” 

“…but you do know what it is.” The tactician nodded. “Is your mother Grimleal?”

“Yes.”

“…are you Grimleal?”

Robin hunched his shoulders against the chill. “Would it matter?”

Chrom opened his mouth to insist…

…and stopped. _Did_ it matter? The man beside him had saved Ylissean lives, helped broker a Feroxi alliance, and defended the exalt from Plegian treachery. His faith had never played into that. 

…but if the prince had known beforehand, the tactician might never have been _allowed_ to do any of it.

“No,” Chrom murmured. “Not in the least.”

Robin glanced at him. “Really?”

“Should it?” the captain asked. 

“…most Ylisseans seem to think so,” the tactician mumbled. 

“Then they need to take a lesson from my sister,” Chrom snorted. “…so are you? Grimleal?”

“…Frederick will skin me alive if he finds out, you understand,” Robin sighed. “I’m fairly sure he already suspects me because of the coat, the last thing he needs is confirmation.”

“I suppose it will have to stay between us, then,” the captain chuckled. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“…thank you.” The tactician’s smile caught him off-guard. Rather than his frustrating half-expression, there was real emotion there. Something hopeful. Maybe even _happy._

Before he could remark on it, a very familiar voice shouted up the street. “Milord! Where do you think you’re going?”

“Back to camp,” Chrom called back. “I don’t need an escort, Frederick.”

“I won’t hear of it!” the great knight scoffed, hurrying up the road to meet them. “There could be all manner of lowlifes prowling the streets at night, letting you go alone is _unthinkable_ …”

The prince rolled his eyes, glancing back at Robin to find his smile gone, replaced by his usual expressionless calm. “You should smile like that more often,” he murmured. “It suits you better.”

The tactician shrank into his coat, pulling the hood down over his face. But as Frederick continued to prattle on about his duties as a knight, Chrom saw Robin wipe away a very real, and very sheepish, grin.

It was a start.

***

After the better part of three weeks spent marching to every corner of the halidom, the last leg of their journey took them across the wide sound separating Ylisse from its main island territory. Robin had never traveled by boat before, but he’d read enough to know the weather made all the difference when it came to having an enjoyable or thoroughly unpleasant experience.

But the skies were clear and the water calm as they made the crossing, piled in wide rowboats meant for carrying goods, rather than people, to and from the mainland. Even so, the ferrymen seemed pleased enough to help once Chrom and his sister passed along their message from the exalt. 

A part of him wished that their journey would continue on like this. Once they returned to Ylisstol, they would have to face the threat of war head-on again. Here on the road, the only reminder of what awaited them lay in the message they bore. 

But those idle fantasies evaporated as a lanky boy pelted toward their company with a brigand in pursuit, his face deathly pale and his voice raised in a plea for aid. One man posed little risk to the Shepherds -- and he clearly recognized that fact, retreating as the soldiers drew their arms. 

The tactician did not need a place at Chrom’s side to guess at what had happened. Emboldened by the threat of war on the border, bandits had begun pillaging the villages furthest from the capital’s influence, taking captives for the sake of ransom or sale into servitude. With a brewing conflict to divert military resources, they doubtless believed no one would come to stop them -- which gave the Shepherds a perfect opportunity to do just that. 

Or it would have, had the rogue sent to fetch the escaped villager not fled. Word of the militia’s arrival would precede them, giving the brigands time to prepare their defenses. 

But Chrom led them on without hesitation. Lives were in danger, whether they had a tactical advantage or not. With the village boy to guide them, the Shepherds hurried on through the sparsely wooded hills until, with the fall of twilight, they arrived outside a crumbling fortification. The high walls prevented them from seeing much -- but gaps in the stone offered glimpses of the shadows lurking within. 

Decaying or not, the stronghold offered their enemy a distinct advantage. Until the Shepherds breached the remnants of the gate, they had no way of knowing what awaited them. The young farmhand’s recollection was, at best, foggy: a hundred men seemed excessive, even for well-organized brigands. Two dozen seemed more likely, if their force had taken a small village…which still left the Shepherds outnumbered two to one. Not impossible odds, but in need of careful coordination. 

Returning from his brief surveillance of the fort’s perimeter, the tactician settled to wait for the captain, drawing a crude battle plan in the dirt at his feet. He hadn’t seen the captured townsfolk on his foray, but likely they’d be held together somewhere within the ruins, away from the walls to prevent escape or rescue.

“Look, just stay here. You’ll be fine.”

Robin glanced up at the sound of Chrom’s voice. The young man from the village loped along at his side, his brows knit in frustration. “I wish I was as strong as you sirs and madams!” the boy said. “Kick that scum out single handed, I would!”

“Then you should fight and grow stronger,” the prince replied.

“But I ain’t--”

“No man is born a warrior, Donny. And farm work makes for fine training -- a sickle’s not far from a sword, after all. Bandits may be tougher than wheat, but the principle’s the same.”

The young man scuffed at the ground under his boots. “A-all right, milord,” he mumbled. “As you say, I’m no warrior. But these’re _my_ people. I gots to do what I can!”

“That’s the spirit,” Chrom chuckled, patting the boy’s shoulder. “Go arm yourself. We’ll hand down orders once you get back.”

“Spoken like a true Feroxi,” the tactician called as the boy hurried off. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say _you_ were the native.”

“Well, that journey north put things into perspective,” the prince replied, moving to crouch next to Robin. “Do you have a plan yet? My first thought was to tell everyone to charge, but I don’t think that would make much of an impression.”

“Not in the least,” the tactician agreed, trying to hide his smile under his hood. It didn’t seem to work, given the amusement written across Chrom’s face. “We need to tread carefully here. Between the unknown territory, poor lighting, and hostage situation, odds are not in our favor. I’ve scouted the perimeter and it looks like the main gate is here,” he explained, indicating a gap in the sketch. “We might be best served sending a small, swift group to act as a distraction while our main force infiltrates through the broken wall here.” He pointed first to the map, then to the faint glow of torchlight shining from the ruins. “Once we’re inside, unless they meet us in force, we can break into smaller groups to root out the brigands.”

“So who do we send as a distraction?” the captain asked. 

“For speed, I would say our mounted units,” Robin advised. “Sully, Stahl, Frederick, and Sumia -- but given the low light, she’ll need to keep her pegasus grounded, because there’s no way to see an arrow coming out of the dark. The four of them should be able to draw attention and make a quick escape -- there’s no need to engage.”

“ _You_ try telling Sully that,” Chrom snorted. 

“Gods, no, she’d gut me.”

The prince laughed, and the tactician felt relieved that the twilight hid the rising color in his face. “If the odds are in their favor, they can still attack, right?”

“Of course,” Robin agreed. “Just so long as they’re not throwing themselves senselessly into danger.”

“I think Sully will agree to that, then,” the captain chuckled. “We should both be safe. I’ll give the order.”

The prince stood, moving toward the rest of the Shepherds as the village boy -- Donny -- hurried up with a rough-hewn lance in hand and a dented pot on his head in place of a helm. Not exactly what Chrom had meant, the tactician imagined. But for the time being, it would suffice.

Robin moved to join the company as the captain turned toward the fortress. “Is everyone ready?” he asked. 

A resounding cry of assent rose from the Shepherds, echoed nervously by their newest soldier. “Then move out!” Chrom ordered, drawing his sword. The other Shepherds took their own weapons in hand as they scattered, the cavaliers galloping into the trees toward the main gate while the infantry headed down the hill toward the breach in the rear wall. 

As they approached the crumbling fortress, Robin heard the villager muttering to himself under his breath. Perhaps he was fighting with second thoughts -- not that the tactician could blame him for that. He turned toward the boy, mustering up what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “You’ll be fine. We’re here to help. Just stay close to Kellam and you’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be your invisible shield,” the knight agreed (though his sudden appearance made Donny yelp and nearly drop his lance). 

“Kellam, Donny, go with Virion and Miriel through that gap,” Robin advised. “Vaike, Lon’qu, the captain, and I will take the north breach. We’ll re-group inside.” The archer tapped an arrow against his forehead in something like a salute as he approached the opening, keeping to the shadows while Kellam moved into the torchlight. With that armor shining like a beacon, the tactician would be shocked if _someone_ didn’t notice him--

Robin jumped as someone touched his shoulder. “It’s just me,” the captain said. “Looks like it’s you and me today.”

The tactician faltered, looking helplessly for the other Shepherds -- but Kellam’s group had already pressed on, and Lon’qu and Vaike had engaged a barbarian that emerged from the trees by the other gap in the wall. And Lissa was wisely keeping her distance from the fighting, watching for signs of distress without putting herself in harm’s way. 

“So it seems,” Robin agreed. They’d never fought side by side before. 

“I feel safer already,” Chrom chuckled. “When I partnered with Vaike during the tournament, he nearly took my head off trying to attack a lancer.”

That sounded about right. And judging by the shouting from behind them, Lon’qu was facing similar problems. 

From within, the fort’s condition looked even worse than it had from outside. Perhaps because there was light enough to see the state of the ruins. The roof had long ago collapsed, and many of the walls had followed suit as the forest encroached. Moss grew thick across much of the floor, and even grass had begun to take root in places, while the remnants of ivy climbed across the walls where torches now burned. 

As they passed a crumbled corridor, something moved in the dark. 

“Look out!”

The tactician grabbed the captain’s shoulder and pulled him back an instant before the barbarian’s axe came down. Chrom barely stumbled. In the next moment his sword flashed down, cutting through the brute’s shoulder, before Robin’s Thunder sent the man crashing to the ground. 

“Are there more?” the prince asked. 

“I don’t know,” the tactician muttered. “But we can find out.”

The magic circle glowed behind him as Robin raised his hand, gesturing into the dark passage. The lightning’s jagged path illuminated piles of rubble and debris littering the floor, though nothing large enough to hide an enemy -- but as the spell struck the wall of the next room, a shadow jumped across the floor. 

“That’s certainly handy.” Chrom grinned, and Robin pulled his hood down a fraction lower. “Press on. We’ll scout the area through here,” the captain said as Lon’qu and Vaike approached with Lissa close behind (much to the myrmidon’s obvious discomfort). 

“I’m coming with you,” the cleric insisted. 

“No, you stay here,” the captain replied. “We’re just scouting ahead. The others might need you, and we’ll be back as soon as we know what’s beyond this hall.”

The princess pouted, but did not voice further dissent, instead turning to the tactician. “Take care of my brother, Robin.” 

“I will.” She nodded and hurried off as Miriel and Virion appeared through the far breach in the wall. So far, so good, apparently. 

“I don’t suppose you could light this place up again,” Chrom muttered as they picked their way through the corridor. 

“I think one spell is more than enough to put them on their guard,” the tactician replied, keeping his voice low. “Besides, now that we know the hall is empty, we can use the light from the next room as a guide. If something blocks the doorway, we’ll have a fight waiting.”

“And if nothing does?”

“Then we’ll have to proceed with caution, or risk having our heads roll.”

“Point taken.” 

Pausing in the shadows beyond the entry, the captain pointed his sword toward the ground, angling the blade first one way, then another. “Looks like there’s only one,” he said. “Cover me.”

Before Robin could reply, Chrom ducked around the doorway. Scrambling to keep up, the tactician prepared another spell…

…only to close his tome as the captain dispatched the axe-wielder by the far door with a swift slash. “Are you sure you need me here?” the tactician called. 

“Of course I do,” the prince replied, cleaning his blade as he moved through the room. “I just took that one by surprise.”

So he said.

While the captain explored, Robin took the time to look around the room. Considering the state of the fortress as a whole, it was in remarkably good shape, with sections of the ceiling still intact. Judging from the cards, dice, and bones scattered across the tables, the tactician guessed it was used as a common area for the bandits to gamble and socialize. 

As Chrom knelt in the far corner of the room, Robin moved closer. “Did you find something?” he asked. 

“Looks like someone here might be related to Vaike,” the prince chuckled, holding up a forgotten axe. The tactician laughed, remembering the first march when their resident fighter had dropped his own weapon on the road north and the subsequent tongue-lashing he’d received from Miriel when she arrived with the lost blade in tow. “Oh, so you _can_ laugh! Looks like Sully owes me ten gold.”

Robin immediately fell silent, pulling his hood down to his nose. “Hey, don’t hide -- what’s wrong with laughing?” the captain asked. 

“Now hardly seems the time for it,” the tactician mumbled. 

“You’re allowed to find humor in odd places -- gods know, I do,” Chrom chuckled, fixing the axe to his belt where it would not be in the way. “And you never seem to find anything funny. It’s nice to know that you have a sense of humor.”

To be fair, it had been a long while since Robin had found anything funny enough to laugh over. But he could see the prince’s point, even still. Fitting in required a very different skillset from the one he’d trained over the years. 

“I’ll try to put it to better use, then,” the tactician murmured. 

Chrom patted his shoulder. “That’s the spirit. We’d best press on -- Lissa will get worried if we don’t head back soon.”

That proved a rather moot point, though, as the doorway in the room beyond offered a clear vantage of the battle at hand. While Lon’qu and Vaike dealt with a thief trying to make off with some of the bandits’ ill-gotten gains, Lissa waved to her brother from the sidelines. Judging from her smile, it seemed their assault was progressing smoothly.

A low roar brought Robin’s attention back to the battle at hand. The light of his thunder spell sent the barbarian’s shadow skittering eerily across the walls -- and it did not slow the bandit’s progress, even as it struck him square in the chest. 

Chrom darted in front of the tactician, his sword ringing as the axe crashed against the flat of the blade. The sheer force of the blow brought the captain to one knee.

“Move!” the tactician shouted. The prince did not hesitate, shoving the brigand back and lunging aside as another bolt crackled through the air. And even then, it took a slash from Chrom to finally bring the brute down. 

“See?” the captain panted. “I do need you.”

Thank the gods for the low light. Robin could feel the smile pulling at his face, and try as he might, he couldn’t force it down. That man’s charm knew no bounds.

Following the torchlight into the next room, the tactician glanced toward the trees visible through the gap where a wall had once been. They must have traversed the length of the fortress. No sign of the villagers, though -- perhaps the other Shepherds were having better luck?

The captain glanced through a crumbled archway and cursed. “Let’s go!” Startled, Robin leapt to follow Chrom’s lead -- and saw the archer hastily nocking an arrow and taking aim at the prince. 

The magic circle burst into light behind the tactician, the spell arcing over Chrom’s head and striking the bowman’s helm. The captain’s sword cut neatly through the archer’s bowstring as the bandit scrambled backward -- but not fast enough to avoid the next strike. 

“That was close,” Robin sighed, wiping his sleeve across his forehead. No trace of the villagers here, either. They must be on the other side of the fortress. The prince turned--

And staggered to his knees, an axe buried in his chest. 

“Chrom!”

The tactician leapt to the captain’s side. The prince gasped, each breath hitching painfully as blood poured around the blade. Oh, gods --

Something crunched behind him.

Robin whirled as a scarred man moved out of the shadows, leering at the prince as he tested the edge of his axe. “So this is Prince Chrom, eh?” he sneered. “You’ll fetch a pretty pile’a coin from the noblefolk…dead ‘r alive, yer _majesty._ ”

Something in the tactician’s chest twisted and snapped. 

Chrom reached for his arm as he took to his feet. “R-Robin--”

“It’s alright, Captain,” the tactician murmured, placing himself firmly between the prince and the bandit. “I can take care of this.”

The barbarian’s laugh, however muted, grated on his nerves. “Izzat so, little man? Let’s jes’ see you try.”

The magic circle glowed around him, sending wraithlike shadows dancing across the wall. A faint haze obscured the brigand’s figure as Robin called the spell forth -- but even still, his eyes never left the rogue's face as he raised his open hand to the sky, electricity leaping from his palm to the clouds above with only a faint rumble.

The bandit’s laughter sounded distant, distorted, in spite of the narrow distance between them. “Is that it? It’s about time you castle whelps learned what us wild-born men can do!”

As the brigand leapt, axe raised to strike, Robin brought his upraised hand down in a smooth arc. 

“ ** _Fall._** ”

Lightning crashed down on the bandit with a deafening roar. As intently as the tactician had been watching the man, the flash left him momentarily blind. But as his sight returned, he saw no sign of the enemy -- just a smoking heap of charcoal and a blackened axe. 

Robin stumbled back a step. His knees gave out and he fell to the blood-streaked stones, the stench of charred meat making his stomach heave as he tried not to breathe. 

He’d done that. Gods, _he’d_ done that. 

Voices. The tactician looked up, blinking to clear his spotty vision as other Shepherds burst into the room. He couldn’t hear what they said with his ears still ringing from the thunder…but he saw them all stop and stare at the twisted remains, if only for an instant, before they hurried to Chrom’s side. 

He could feel their eyes on him. And under the glove, he could swear he felt the mark on his hand burning with each glance. 

What had he done?

***

Robin hadn’t been acting like himself since they left the village. He’d been quiet, which was pretty normal, but he’d also been avoiding everybody, and that wasn’t. Not anymore, at least. He hadn’t done that since the march to Ferox.

Lissa had been so happy, watching him with the Shepherds lately. He still didn’t talk much, unless somebody talked to him first, but he wasn’t hiding from questions the way he did before. She got the feeling he didn’t know how to talk to people, and she’d been meaning to ask him about it when they had some time not taken up by marching and training and the like. 

But something had happened in the ruins. 

Nobody knew what. They’d all been busy with other bandits elsewhere. But everybody heard the crash of thunder. And when they found her brother and the tactician, all that was left of the rogue captain was an axe and a pile of burnt bones. It didn’t even look like a person anymore. 

Chrom had laughed it off like it was just some impressive feat. Some of the other Shepherds were surprised, and Miriel had started talking about doing an experiment to see if it was just his tome or something he’d done. Mostly people were just confused. Sure, Robin was good at what he did, especially with a spellbook. And he’d taken lives in battle before. But the bodies still looked like _people_ when he walked away, not skeletons. 

She’d been trying to keep an eye on him. Something might be really wrong with him, or he might need help, and she was a cleric! Who better to help than her, right? So when he wandered off into the dark while the other Shepherds set up camp, she followed. 

It wasn’t as easy as she’d figured it would be. They’d fought in an old fort lit by torches, but in spite of his injury, Chrom had voted to camp outside the village. The fires hadn’t been lit yet, so she had to feel her way through the trees with her hands and the toes of her boots. Not exactly the most graceful or princess-ly way to make an entrance. 

She didn’t exactly find Robin. She more ran headlong into him from behind and then stumbled back babbling apologies. And she wasn’t even sure it _was_ him for a minute, because he didn’t say anything, even though he _had_ to have felt it when she ran into him, but as her eyes adjusted to the moonlight she could make out his hooded coat and his ruffled hair, so--

“Do you think I’m a bad person?”

“Huh?”

What a great answer, Lissa. 

“Do you think I’m a bad person?” the tactician repeated, and she thought his voice shook a little. 

“Of course not,” the princess replied. “You’re a great person, Robin, why would you think--”

“Did you hear what I did?” he whispered, so quietly that she almost missed the words. 

But she hadn’t just heard about it. She’d seen it for herself. Should she tell him that?

…no. Something about the way he was acting and talking told her to keep that to herself. “I heard,” she mumbled. 

“I don’t remember it.”

Now his voice was really shaking. He turned, pacing a few steps one way, then the other, raking a hand through his hair. “No, it’s not…I remember it, but it’s all…it’s hazy, like it wasn’t real. But I know it was. I was there, I saw what…what was left,” he choked. “I was so…so _angry._ I can’t remember ever being so upset. A-and I was scared. I thought Chrom was going to die. And then everything went blurry, and I know I cast Thunder, but it’s all so hazy, I don’t know how I…”

He turned toward her, his eyes bright even in the dark around them. She’d never seen him like this, and she didn’t think she liked it. “Lissa, I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what I did, or why, or _how,_ and what if it happens again? What if I do it to one of the Shepherds? What do I do?”

He stepped toward her and she stumbled back. “You’re scaring me, Robin!”

He stopped dead in his tracks. She couldn’t even hear his breath. But the look of despair she saw on his face, just for a second, was what stole hers. 

“I’m sorry.”

A broken smile twisted his expression as he pressed a hand against his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -- I-I’m fine, don’t worry, I…I’ll go, just please don’t -- I never meant to trouble you, I’m…”

He turned away from her, and Lissa knew she’d done everything wrong. And then he started walking, and she knew she had to make it right. 

She launched herself after him, wrapping her arms around his chest and pressing tight against his back. “I’m sorry!” she cried. “I’m sorry, Robin, I didn’t mean it like that! Please don’t leave, _please_ …”

“I don’t want to scare you,” he whispered. She could feel him shaking all over, and tightened her arms.

“I’m not scared of you,” she insisted. “You don’t scare me. I know you wouldn’t _ever_ hurt me, or Chrom, or any of the Shepherds. You’re a good person, Robin, you’re a _really_ good person, I know you’d _never_ do _anything_ to hurt us.”

“How can you know that?” he asked. Something warm dripped onto her arm, and she snuggled closer against his back. “How can you know that, after what I did today?”

“Because bad people don’t worry about who they hurt,” she said. “They don’t worry about anything but getting what they want. And you’re worried about us, instead. I _know_ you’re a good person, we _all_ do, and this just _proves_ it.”

“They look at me like I’m a monster,” he whispered. “I can hear them whispering, I can feel their eyes--”

“It’s okay, Robin.” She hugged him tighter as he trembled. “They don’t think you’re a monster, or a bad person. They just didn’t know you had that in you. But you did it to save Chrom, right? It…it means that you’re part of our family now. Remember what you said? How family’s the people you’d do anything for? I think _that_ qualifies as _anything._ ”

The tactician made a small noise. It sounded a little like a laugh, and for a second she thought maybe she’d cheered him up after all. But drops kept pattering onto her arms, and the shaky breath he drew was the kind she knew too well.

“Hey. Come on, don’t cry…you’re not the one who’s supposed to cry, that’s _my_ job,” she teased. “Sit down, okay? Come on…”

It took some coaxing. It would have helped if there was a stump or something nearby to use as a seat, but she eventually managed to get the tactician on the ground, his long legs crossed and his body curling up in a tight, shivering ball. So she put her arms around him and rocked him, as best she could, trying to remember how Emmeryn had done it when she was little, because it had always made her feel better.

She couldn’t recall. But at least she seemed to be helping a little, because he stopped shaking so hard, and the little sobs she heard got less frequent. His breathing sounded steadier, too, though it took a while to get there. 

Eventually he uncurled a little, scrubbing at his eyes with the hem of his sleeve. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “Abo-out all of that.”

“It’s okay,” Lissa said, fishing a handkerchief out of her sleeve and handing it to him. “You needed it. And I’m glad you told me. Especially if it made you feel better. Did it make you feel better?”

“It did,” he murmured.

“Promise?”

“I already promised.”

“What? When?” she demanded.

“When we pinky swore,” he reminded her, blowing his nose. 

“Oh, yeah.” She’d forgotten about that. “…I’m sorry I said you scared me, though. I’ve just never seen you worked up like that before. You’re always so calm, even in the middle of a battle, or when you almost got your hand burned off.”

“It’s a skill,” he sighed. 

“You can _learn_ to be calm all the time?”

“With enough practice, yes.”

“…did you practice too hard and forget how to not be calm? Because you don’t show a lot of emotion. _Any_ emotion.”

“Something like that.”

“…why did you practice that hard, then?” she asked.

“Because people don’t pay as much attention to you if you’re calm. And I didn’t want to be noticed.”

“Do you not like attention?”

“Not really.”

“…does that mean you don’t like being our tactician?”

“…I don’t really draw attention to myself being your tactician, though. I’m just the man who advises Chrom on how to direct his troops. As leader, he gets the attention. I don’t think a lot of people consider that there might be someone else dreaming up the tactics. Plus, with me fighting on the battlefield, it blurs the line between tactician and soldier further, so I stand out less. Enemies are more likely to target me for wielding a tome, not to disrupt the Shepherds’ coordination.”

“…you think about this a lot, don’t you?”

“Gods, you have no idea.”

“You’re weird,” she giggled, leaning against his shoulder. “…but that’s okay. Because you’re _our_ weird tactician.”

“…I’m glad,” he murmured, sounding surprised. “I’m glad I can be your weird tactician.”

“Good, because we’re not getting rid of you,” she laughed, wrapping her arms around his elbow. “You’d better get used to us!”

“With practice, I think I’ll manage,” he chuckled. Lissa couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. But the fact that he was _laughing_ seemed like a big improvement. And so long as he was feeling better, that was all that mattered to her.

***

Chrom’s chest ached. Even after Lissa’s care, the pain had only dulled, not gone. But despite his sister’s insistence that they stay in Donny’s village and let the doctor look him over, the prince wanted nothing more than to rest in his own tent. He’d healed from injuries just fine in the past with a little of his sisters’ magic and a good night’s sleep.

Granted, his wounds had never been this bad before. 

But the villagers had been through enough. He didn’t want to impose on them further. So he’d retired early, accepting Frederick’s aid with only a minimum of grumbling, and waited for sleep to come. 

Which it didn’t. 

“Captain?”

Chrom looked up. “Yes?”

Robin poked his head past the tent flap. “I hope I’m not disturbing you--“

“Not at all,” the prince smiled. “I wasn’t having any luck sleeping, anyway. Did you need something?”

The tactician moved carefully inside, bearing a tray of cured meat and boiled vegetables. “I heard you turned in without supper. It’s not much, but…”

Chrom wasn’t hungry. But he appreciated the gesture. “Have you eaten yet?”

“N-no, I--”

“I hope you brought enough for two, then,” the prince said. “I could use the company.”

Robin smiled weakly, settling next to the bedroll. In the low lamplight, he still looked pale and shaky. “Are you feeling alright?” Chrom asked. 

The tactician pulled the coat closer around him. “I’m sorry.”

The prince frowned as he took a strip of smoked meat from the platter. “For what?”

“For failing you.”

“…how?” 

“If I’d been paying attention, you wouldn’t have gotten hurt--”

“Robin. Stop.” The tactician fell silent, rubbing the back of his hand in what Chrom had started to recognize as a nervous gesture. His face might not show emotion, but his tics gave him away. “That wasn’t your fault. Even if you had seen him, he still would have attacked. And it’s thanks to you that I’m still breathing -- I’ve never seen a spell like that before.”

“Neither had I,” Robin mumbled into his collar. 

“So I should be thanking you, not forgiving you.” 

“But--”

“Robin.” The tactician shrank a bit further into his coat. “…does it mean that much to you?” the prince asked. Robin nodded, staring down at the tray between them. “Alright. I’ll forgive you -- _if_ you tell me more about yourself.”

The tactician ruffled his hair. At least he wasn’t acting nervous anymore. “W-what do you want to know?”

‘Everything’ probably wouldn’t get him talking. “Do you do anything in your spare time? Besides reading,” Chrom added. 

“…I do a bit of carving, sometimes,” Robin admitted. 

“Really? Something you picked up in Ferox?”

“It is the national pastime,” the tactician chuckled. 

“Do you have anything you’ve carved?”

“N-no, I don’t…usually keep them. They’re not much good.”

“I’d like to be the judge of that.”

Robin sighed, rooting through his coat pockets for a moment before removing a small stone dagger and a piece of dark wood the size of his palm. “I make no promises.”

“Gods, what else do you have in there?” the prince asked. 

“Oh, all manner of things,” the tactician murmured, discarding strips of bark. “A vulnerary, a few pieces of flint, some dried fruit and meat, a bit of coin for emergencies. A pretty stone or two. Nothing of much value.”

All traveler’s aids, Chrom noted. “How long had you been wandering Ylisse before you joined the Shepherds?”

“A few years?” Robin glanced up, tapping the flat of his blade against the wood block. “Let’s see, I came south before the Feroxi draft, so…three years, I think.”

“You must have seen the whole of the halidom by now.” Even the prince couldn’t make that claim.

“Not quite. This is the first time I’ve been to this island,” the tactician admitted. “I stuck to the continent. The forests and the mountains are quite beautiful. Though I’d never visited the border pass before, either.”

“Really? Even though your mother’s Plegian?”

“I have no interest in going back to Plegia,” Robin shuddered. 

“…wait, _back_ to Plegia?”

“Well, I was born there. My mother emigrated to Ferox when I was still a baby, so I don’t remember it, but the fact remains.”

“You said you were from Regna Ferox,” the prince protested. 

“No, I said I _came_ to Ylisse _from_ Regna Ferox,” the tactician corrected. “I never said anything about where I was born.”

…damn. That was a clever bit of misdirection. 

The piece of wood in his hand had started to take on a rough shape. Chrom watched for a few moments, chewing on a strip of dried meat without much interest. “So why don’t you want to go to Plegia?” he asked. “You wouldn’t be an outcast there for your looks or your spells. And isn’t everyone there Grimleal?”

“…technically, yes.”

“Technically?”

Robin paused, picking through the vegetables on the tray and picking a small turnip to chew over. The prince waited while the tactician continued his idle whittling. 

“The Grimleal are not unified in their faith.”

“What?”

“It’s…a complex situation,” Robin sighed. “My mother taught me everything she knew, in my youth. About Plegia, about the Grimleal, about _her_ faith and the capital’s faith. Sometime in the distant past, a schism arose in the religion. One group worshipped Grima as a vengeful deity, who would bring ruin and despair to those who oppressed her followers--”

“Her?”

“That’s how my mother spoke of Grima,” the tactician shrugged. “Her sect -- the faith I hold -- esteems Grima as a deity of renewal. Destruction for the sake of creation, death giving way to new life.”

“…huh.” Chrom mulled over Robin’s words, taking another piece of meat to chew as the tactician picked another turnip from the plate. “So…you think you’d have trouble with the other Grimleal, if you went to Plegia?”

“Something like that,” Robin murmured. “There was a time when both sects coexisted with minimal strife. The Grimleal of the destroyer’s faith were mainly concentrated around the capital, while the renewers practiced in the smaller villages scattered through the desert. But the last war with Ylisse brought so much turmoil -- many of the border villages were destroyed and the Grimleal slaughtered, and the survivors flocked to the capital where they were taken in by the destroyers. From there…I don’t know. My mother left before Gangrel’s reign began, and gods know what he’s done in the interim. I’m sure that some of the renewers survived and kept their faith, but given the power of destroyer’s following after the war, they might have been forced to convert, or gone into hiding…I’d rather not take the risk.”

“Fair enough. …gods, is there _anything_ you don’t know?”

“Oh, lots of things. How to use most weapons effectively. Valmese history and customs. How best to avoid Frederick.”

Chrom laughed. It made his chest hurt, but he couldn’t help himself. “If you ever do figure out that last one, I hope you’ll share it. Lissa and I have been trying for years without success.”

“Well, at least I’m not alone in ignorance.” Robin smiled, offering the rough carving for the prince’s inspection. “It’s not the worst I’ve ever done, but I’d be surprised if anyone could tell what it--”

“It’s a bear,” Chrom said, turning it in the light. Simple, yes, but the ears and muzzle were easy to recognize. 

“Y-yes,” the tactician agreed. 

“It’s not a bad likeness,” the prince remarked, passing it back. “You should give it to Lissa when it’s finished -- remind her of that bear we had for supper the night you joined the Shepherds.”

“That’s precisely what I was thinking as I carved it,” Robin laughed.

As Chrom started to ask his next question, the tactician lifted his head, staring intently at the opening of the tent. “Oh, dear. Company’s on its way.”

“Frederick?” the prince asked. Not that he needed to. Now that he stopped to listen, the heavy clank of the great knight’s armor was impossible to miss. “Well, you’re already better at evading him than either Lissa or I ever were. Best escape while you have a chance.” The tactician smiled, drawing his hood down over his eyes. “It was nice talking with you.”

Robin paused, tugging his cowl down over his nose as he turned back. “I enjoyed talking with you, too. I…I hope we can do it again soon.”

“I look forward to it,” Chrom agreed. 

And then he was gone.


	8. Passing On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the halidom hovering on the edge of war, the Shepherds prepare to march northward to request additional troops -- but the peace of a nation is shattered by a flash of steel in the darkness...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Warnings: Violence, Blood, Death**
> 
>   
>  We're entering uncharted territory now. Welcome aboard!
> 
> More perspective shifts this chapter. Dashes (-) still indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

Sunrise brought with it a pegasus knight from Ylisstol. By some miracle, Emmeryn had reached her consensus. 

Rather than backtracking across the bay, the Shepherds crossed the inlet at its narrowest point, making landfall at the edge of a forest flanked by rolling mountains. They made swift progress through the woods, but while they could have gone further up the valley before nightfall, Frederick insisted that they make camp early. Under other circumstances, Chrom would have fought the great knight on that point -- but for once, he saw the wisdom in Frederick’s mothering. His chest still ached, and every mile made it harder to keep up a strong front for his troops. 

Yet in spite of his exhaustion, sleep did not come easy. Restless thoughts worried at his mind as he lay in the dark. The threat of war. Gangrel’s words at the border pass. The price Emm had paid for peace, and how fragile it had proven to be for all her efforts. His father’s legacy, and how it undermined them all at every turn. 

He’d managed to outrun those troubles for a while. But they were nothing compared to his sister’s inescapable burden. 

Morning came too soon, and with it the march through the canyon east of Ylisstol. He’d paid little attention to the changing season while they spread their message to the people, but autumn had taken its toll: in the month since their departure, the harvest had finished, leaving the trees and forests around the capital bare and barren. 

And yet, entering the palace grounds with the setting of the sun, Chrom was relieved to find that the courtyard and gardens remained just as lush and green as when they’d departed. He had never questioned what magic preserved it, but the familiarity eased his heavy heart.

While the Shepherds returned to the garrison, the prince and princess continued on to the castle. Phila met them at the door -- but rather than escorting them to the council room, or even their sister’s chambers, she led them to the dining hall. 

“What’s all this?” Chrom asked. A lavish banquet awaited at the head of the table, already set for three: roast quail and venison, thick vegetable stew, half a dozen pies, bread, cheese, and a few late fruits glazed in sugar. 

“I thought something special was in order.” Emmeryn leaned around her high-backed chair, smiling at her siblings. “After all, I’ve not seen you in a moon, and I fear I won’t see you again for at least a fortnight more.”

That alone confirmed the prince’s suspicions. 

“This is amazing, Emm!” Lissa cheered, bounding to the chair on the left while Chrom took his seat at the exalt’s right. He’d fully intended to go to bed without a big supper, but the sight and smell of the feast before them made his stomach roar.

“I take it we’re going to Ferox?” he asked, heaping his plate with meat and bread while Lissa started in on her soup. 

“Come morning, if possible,” Emmeryn agreed. “I’ve already prepared a missive for the Khan requesting troops to defend our western border.”

“B-but Emm--” Lissa started, and Chrom’s stomach lurched. 

“At least the climate will be to their liking, with winter on its way,” he cut in. “I wonder how much snow they have now. They had a few inches two moons ago, and it was only fall.”

“I’ve been concerned about how troops will be mobilized from Regna Ferox,” the exalt murmured, sipping her own soup while Lissa frowned at her brother across the table. “Especially if the snows are fierce. Perhaps the garrison at the Longfort has additional troops that the Khan could dispatch for our aid?”

“Well, it seemed busy enough,” Chrom agreed. “We only faced a few soldiers outside, but inside it was crowded with troops. They can’t _all_ be needed for defense of Ferox’s borders.”

“Such is my hope,” Emmeryn agreed. “But enough of that. How were your travels?”

Lissa took another breath. “Chrom--”

“Got tired of saying the same thing every day,” he muttered, carving a thick slice of meat off the venison haunch before him. “I don’t know how you do it, Emm.”

“It’s not so difficult,” she chuckled, turning her attention to her own plate. “And you, Lissa?”

The prince’s heart sank. Gods, if she said anything about his wound…

“Chrom…did a really great job,” his sister mumbled around her soup spoon. “Everybody was so impressed, and they all seemed really happy once we told them. I tried to help out, but…”

“I’m sure you did a fine job,” Emmeryn murmured. “I’m proud of you. _Both_ of you.”

Her smile stirred a pang of guilt in his chest. But he couldn’t tell her what had happened on the last leg of their journey. This task was too important to leave to their undertrained emissaries, and their departure had already been delayed so long by Emmeryn’s insistence on consensus -- the sooner they left, the better. 

The conversation turned to trivial matters, much to his relief, and Chrom tried to enjoy his dinner in spite of the bitter taste deceit left in his mouth. It grew easier once politics fell by the wayside. They laughed at old jokes, reminisced about their embarrassing youths, and complained (without real venom) about their overbearing guards. In the past, meals like this -- less fancy, but just as entertaining -- had been a nightly occurrence. Emmeryn always made time to eat with them, no matter how busy her days might have been. 

But that sense of comforting familiarity evaporated with the end of the meal. The castle gardens might remain green forever, but this peace could not last. 

As Phila escorted the exalt up to her chambers, Chrom glanced over at Lissa. “Thank you for keeping that secret,” he said.

“I was gonna tell her,” the princess mumbled, twisting her apron in her hands. “But it’s…it’s important that we go back to Ferox. I don’t think I could do it on my own, or I really would’ve said something.”

“I’ll be okay,” he chuckled, tousling his sister’s pigtails. She swatted at his hand, struggling (and failing) to keep a smile from replacing her pout. “You’ll been taking good care of me, after all.”

“Well, of _course,_ ” she huffed. “ _Somebody’s_ got to -- you’re too pigheaded to do it on your own.”

“Go to bed,” he laughed, pushing her gently toward the stairs. Lissa bounced up the first few steps, turned, and stuck her tongue out at him before hurrying up out of sight. 

He might have followed, once. But as her giggling faded from echoes into silence, the thoughts he’d set aside for the evening came skulking back. The same thoughts that had kept him awake through so much of the night before. 

He doubted sleep would come any more easily in his own bed. 

The prince made his way slowly through the castle, paying no heed to the halls around him until he found them gone. Glancing at the green leaves and grass of the gardens before him, Chrom sighed. Perhaps a walk was what he needed to settle his mind, burn through whatever restless energy kept him awake…

“Chrom?”

The prince glanced up to find their tactician walking up the path toward him. “Oh. Hello, Robin.”

“What are you doing out so late?”

He could have asked the same question of the tactician. But instead he sighed, running one hand through his hair. “Just…dueling with some unpleasant thoughts.”

Robin said nothing. But as he moved to stand beside the captain, Chrom caught his glance, like a silent invitation to continue. And after all that he had shared with the prince…perhaps he could entrust his own secrets with the tactician, as Robin had with him.

“Tomorrow we march to Regna Ferox to request additional soldiers,” the prince said, turning his gaze to the moonless sky. “But there’s something that’s been bothering me since the battle at the border pass. …Not everything Gangrel said was a lie.”

“To be fair, I wasn’t able to hear what was said,” the tactician remarked. 

“How much do you know of the last war between Ylisse and Plegia?”

“Enough to get by in Ylisse, but little else.”

“The last exalt -- my father -- waged war on Plegia for many years,” Chrom explained. “The violence…it was a brutal campaign, ending only with his death fifteen years ago. Plegia rightfully remembers their suffering, but my father’s war was no kinder to his own people. As the fighting dragged on, our army became more and more diminished. Farmers who could barely wield a pitchfork were conscripted and sent to their deaths. Soon there was no food at all, and the kingdom began to collapse. I was young, but I remember those dark times. …I know how they affected Emmeryn.”

“Such an experience would change anyone,” Robin murmured. 

“Indeed. When our father died before her tenth year, he left her quite the legacy…Plegia’s desire for vengeance…our own peoples’ unbridled rage…my sister became a target for blame from all sides. Her own subjects began to hurl insults -- and stones. She still bears the scars from one.” His fingers clenched at the memory -- both of his sister’s pain, and her gentle insistence that he not lash out at the man who struck her.

She’d been smiling. Even with blood matting her hair, she had been smiling as she took Chrom’s hand and continued down the street. 

“She never let them see her pain,” he whispered. “Only Lissa and I understood.”

“It must have been so hard…”

The prince glanced at the tactician, who had begun worrying at his gloves again. He doubted Robin even realized it, as distant as his expression had gone. What was he thinking about, Chrom wondered -- what memory had those words stirred?

“I cannot claim to know how she does it,” he sighed. “I could never greet such hostility with warmth and patience. While our people mocked and vilified her, she reached out and healed them. She brought soldiers home to their families. She ended the war. And when Ylisse’s spirit was mended and the people ‘forgave’ her? …she never resented them for it.”

Even he could not make such a claim. Though it had long since faded, that anger had once burned in his chest and nearly consumed him. 

Emmeryn had saved him from it. Just as she’d saved all of Ylisse. 

“She represents the best of the halidom -- the part most worth protecting. She is peace. But some men would take advantage of that. Men like King Gangrel,” Chrom growled. “The day he understands peace will be the day death gives it to him. …so perhaps I must be death’s agent. Emmeryn would never order him killed, nor would I wish her to. But while that madman reigns, there will be no peace. For Ylisse or Plegia.”

“Until the infection is removed, a wound cannot begin to heal,” the tactician said, his voice soft in the still night. “With Gangrel on the throne, Plegia’s wounds have only festered further. …but you should not be the one dirtying his hands with such work. Regicide does not befit you.”

“Why not? Too far above my station?” the prince snorted. 

“It seems too dishonorable. The prince I’ve come to know would not stoop to such a deed.”

Chrom smiled at the man beside him. “I appreciate your vote of confidence. But sometimes even the righteous must dirty their hands for a noble cause.”

“As you say,” Robin agreed. “But…it would pain your sister, to think you took that life. I would gladly bloody my hands to keep you from shouldering that burden.”

The prince smiled, laying his hand on the tactician’s shoulder. “You’re a good friend, Robin. But enough of these dismal thoughts -- I think the both of us need to sleep if we’re to march in the morning.” Chrom turned back toward the palace--

The tactician gripped his arm.

“What--”

“Don’t turn your back on the trees.”

Robin’s face remained perfectly calm, his voice soft and barely inflected. But his hand shook as he removed it from the prince’s elbow, pulling his coat closer around him. “What do you see?” the captain asked, scanning the dense growth. 

“Nothing,” the tactician replied, his voice quiet. “Listen.”

Chrom tried. But his heartbeat seemed too loud to hear anything else. He reached for his sword, wincing at the ache in his chest--

A shadow burst from the bushes, steel gleaming in the torchlight. 

Falchion reflected something brighter as he drew it from its sheath.

The assassin fell at their feet, magic crackling across the body as Robin lowered his hand. The prince breathed a heavy sigh, resting his blade by his side. “Thank you--”

The tactician gestured for silence, and the captain closed his mouth. Walking forward, Robin nudged the assassin with the toe of his boot…and, seeming satisfied, he crouched down, rolling the body over and searching it for--

Another figure dropped from the trees.

Chrom raised Falchion again even as the tactician turned, magic circles blazing around him. The spell struck the assassin square in the chest -- but even as the attacker fell, Robin pressed a hand to his side, his breaths as unsteady as his footing as he struggled to his feet. 

The prince caught his arm, steadying the tactician as he tried to see the wound. The lack of torches in the garden didn’t help matters, but the dark stain spreading across his shirt was impossible to miss. 

“Are there more?” Chrom asked. 

“I don’t know,” Robin gasped, clutching his tome to his chest. “I didn’t even hear the second one.”

“Who are they?” 

“I don’t know. No emblem,” the tactician muttered. “But I could hazard a guess.”

“Plegia?”

Robin nodded.

“We need to warn Emm and Lissa,” the prince said, pulling the tactician’s arm over his shoulder and backing toward the castle. “They can tend that wound, too--”

An explosion rocked the ground beneath their feet. 

Chrom’s heart seized as he turned toward the palace. “Go,” Robin breathed. “Hurry. I’ll stay, m-make sure no one tries to sneak in--”

“You’re coming with me. Even if I have to carry you -- I’m not leaving you here alone.” He would not argue this point. 

Taking up Falchion again, he turned the both of them back toward the castle, dodging the guards swiftly crowding the halls. Chrom darted up the first staircase they came to, narrowly avoiding a squadron of knights heading toward the gardens. “Lissa’s room is at the top of these stairs,” the prince said. “We can--“

A scream echoed through the corridor. 

“Lissa!”

Whatever pain the tactician was in, he did not protest as Chrom took the stairs two at a time, pulling his arm free of the prince’s shoulders as they cleared the landing; the spell outpaced the captain’s sprint toward his sister’s door, stopping the barbarian trying to chop his way into her chambers just long enough for Chrom to cut him down. “Lissa!” he shouted. 

“Chrom?”

He heard the bar on her door clatter to the ground, a crack appearing by the frame…before the princess burst out, flinging herself into her brother’s arms. “What’s going on? I heard a huge crash, and then someone started pounding on my door a-and there was an _axe_ and--”

“It’s okay.” He smoothed his sister’s hair, relief washing over him as he realized that she hadn’t been hurt. Frightened, yes, but not injured. “Whatever’s going on, it’s big. We have to get Emm--”

Lightning crackled over his shoulder. 

Chrom lunged aside, dragging his sister with him. A gust of wind whipped past, tugging at his cape as he charged the dark mage behind them, cutting down the enemy in a single clean strike.

“Robin!”

The prince turned to see the tactician on the ground, leaning against the wall as Lissa crouched beside him. As he hurried back up the hall, the princess scrambled back into her room for her staff. “Gods, what happened to you?” she demanded.

“Assassin in the gardens,” Robin muttered. He’d lost most of his color, his shirt more red than flax -- and he’d still managed a spell in that condition? 

“I’d be dead if you hadn’t been there,” Chrom said. “You’ll be alright.”

“With due respe-ect, Captain, I don’t feel very right at the m-moment.”

“I’m starting to regret telling you to use your sense of humor.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny.” 

Well, at least his jokes weren’t as macabre as the prince had feared. The soft glow of Lissa’s staff at least eased the pain in the tactician’s face, though it did nothing for his pallor. “How about now, then?”

“Marginally more right,” Robin mumbled, rising unsteadily back to his feet. “I’ll try not to slow you down.”

“More likely you’ll be keeping our heads on our shoulders where they belong,” Chrom said. “I’ll scout ahead. Take care of Lissa.”

Without waiting for arguments, the prince headed down the hall toward Emmeryn’s chambers. The wound in his chest ached with every heartbeat, but he ignored it -- once she was safe, he could lay down his sword and rest --

A stranger looked up as the captain rounded the corner. 

Chrom raised his blade as the man -- a thief, judging from his garb (and the heavy sack thrown over his shoulder) -- turned to face him. “Drop your weapon or die where you stand!” the prince ordered. 

“Easy there, blue blood,” the thief grimaced. “I’m not here to hurt anyone.”

“…yet you run with a band of assassins?” 

“Believe it or not, just trying to make a living,” the man sighed, agreeably holding his hands up. “I’m a thief, see? Bust open doors, crack into chests…that kind of thing. This lot said they wanted to break into some type of vault. Nobody said anything about murder. I’d just as soon sit this one out.”

Chrom’s eyes narrowed. Common sense would tell him not to trust a thief -- but something about the man’s forthright response made him reconsider. “Perhaps you’d be willing to prove your good intentions?”

“Beg pardon?”

“The palace is in chaos. We don’t know what manner of threat we’re facing, and the exalt’s life is in danger. You appear capable, and we could use any information you have about our foes.”

“Oh, right,” the stranger grumbled. “ _Those_ good intentions. Fine, then. I’ll prove my sincerity… _if_ you sweeten the deal.”

Perhaps he’d been hasty in wanting to trust a thief. 

“You want gold?” Chrom growled. “Fine, you scoundrel. Let me just--”

As he reached for the coin purse on his belt, his fingers fumbled over the strings. Another sachet fell to the ground, spilling a few sugar drops across the carpet.

“Looks like you dropped something,” the thief remarked, crouching down as one of the confections rolled toward him. “What’s in the satchel, mmm?”

“Nothing,” the prince muttered. “Candies from my little sister.” She’d bought nearly a cartload at one of the last towns in their journey, and forced a few on all the Shepherds. “I’m sure you--”

“Candies? As in, _sugar candies?_ ”

Chrom glanced up to see the man staring hungrily at the confection in his hand. 

“Well…yes, I assume they’d be sweet?” He hadn’t actually tried one. Candies were more Lissa’s cup of tea -- he’d intended to shove these off on Stahl, but forgot about it entirely with the excitement of the last few days. “But--”

“ _It’s a deal._ ”

The prince stared as the thief popped the morsel into his mouth, closing his eyes in something that looked remarkably like bliss. “You’ll risk your life for us if I give you…a bag of candy?”

“I said ‘sweeten the deal,’ didn’t I?” the stranger grinned, casting another predatory glance at the sachet of confections in Chrom’s hand. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ll take the gold, too. Later. …unless you’ve got more of these -- have you got more of these?” he demanded, snatching the purse from the prince’s hand and devouring a few more. 

“I’ll…ask Lissa.” 

Gods, he hoped this was all some nightmare. Nothing about it seemed real. Least of all the thief who squirreled away a bag of sugar candies under his cape. 

“Chrom? Is everything okay?”

He turned as Lissa peered around the corner. “We have a new…ally,” the captain decided. “This is…”

“Gaius,” the thief said, removing an imaginary hat as he bowed to the princess. “At your service. …especially if you’re Lissa. Are you Lissa?”

“He wants your candy,” Chrom warned. 

“You’re joking,” Robin said, following Lissa down the hall. His color seemed slightly improved, at least, even if every step made him wince. 

“I’ll give you all the candy you want if you help us save Emm,” the princess swore. 

“I’m holding you to that,” the thief winked, bounding past Chrom down the hall. 

“I don’t understand what’s going on anymore,” the tactician muttered. “I’m either going mad or I lost more blood than I thought.”

“Well, if it’s the former, we’re both experiencing the same madness,” the prince remarked. “I’ll keep an eye on our sweet-toothed friend. Guard the rear -- we’ll need to make a quick escape once we fetch Emm.”

Robin and Lissa both nodded, any trace of mirth gone from their expressions. Chrom turned, hurrying to catch up with the thief lurking by the next doorway--

“Think we got a problem, Blue.”

The prince frowned. “What kind of problem?” he asked, glancing around the arch -- 

His heart stopped. 

The doors to Emmeryn’s chambers were thrown open wide, barbarians and thieves tearing her room apart in search of valuables. He saw no sign of her -- but in the weak torchight, he could see something glistening across her writing table.

“We gotta get out of here, Blue -- Blue!”

Chrom heard the thief’s words, but paid them no heed. Charging through the corridor, he struck the nearest barbarian down, searching desperately for any sign, any trace, of the exalt’s presence. “ _EMMERYN!_ ”

No answer. Just the footsteps of assassins. 

Falchion felt heavy in his hand. But he raised it even still as Gaius joined him, eyeing the approaching force. “I’m not a gambling man, but these odds are looking pretty shitty, Blue.”

“I’ll carve through them all if I have to. I won’t leave without my sister.”

He would find her. They couldn’t lose her -- not after all she had done for Ylisse, for her people, for her family. For _him._ He would save her. 

He had to.

***

Emmeryn was dying.

The explosion that shook the castle had heralded the arrival of countless armed men, storming the palace halls in search of something. And she feared she knew just what they sought.

They had broken down her door as she took the treasure of Ylisse from its place above her hearth. One had struck her, sending the exalt crashing to the floor with the shield in hand -- but before he could deal the final blow, she had fled through a narrow passage behind a wall hanging. The chamber beyond had been empty, for the moment. She wasted no time, slipping into a secret corridor behind a tapestry that Chrom and Lissa had found in their youth. Back then, they had used it to sneak out of the castle and play in the gardens. If she could make it outside, find her siblings or one of the Shepherds, she could…

She stumbled, the Fire Emblem nearly falling from her shaking hands. Leaning against the wall, she could feel her blood-soaked gown sticking uncomfortably to her skin, while pain and weakness spread through her limbs. But she could not stop. She had to keep the Emblem from them, she had to--

A shadow moved in the dark ahead. 

“W-who goes?” Emmeryn called, clutching the shield closer to her chest. She had no way to defend herself, but she could not succumb…

Footsteps approached, soft on the stone. No clank of armor. Just the faint rustle of leather as the figure drew close. The exalt’s eyes had begun to fail her, but she could see that the stranger was small -- perhaps a bit taller than Lissa, but more strongly built and less elaborately dressed…

“My name is Panne,” a woman’s voice said. “I am the last of the taguel, here to fulfill my warren’s debt to the exalt’s kin.”

“T-the last?” Emmeryn gasped, leaning against the cold stone wall. “What beca-ame of your warren?”

“It was invaded. My people slaughtered by man-spawn -- not unlike the ones who attack your warren now. You are all the same, right down to your base desire to ruin and destroy all you touch -- even each other.”

The exalt’s legs betrayed her, her knees buckling -- but she did not fall. The small, strong hand of the taguel caught her arm, lowering her gently to the floor. “There is truth in your words,” Emmeryn whispered. “I’m told that, in…in taguel society, everyone is treated as an equal. Mankind could have learned much from your warren. The words may come too late…and mean too little…but I am deeply sorry. We have stolen your friends and family and made the world a lesser place.”

Her heart ached, tears further clouding her dimming vision. For all the suffering she had tried to soothe, there was still so much more she’d not been able to ease…

“You claim to be blameless, and yet you would apologize?” the taguel snorted. “Your words are but wind.”

“I know,” the exalt murmured, wiping her eyes with a trembling hand. “But they are all I have.”

Panne crouched beside her, little more than a shadow in the greater darkness. “You seem sincere. You feel my pain as your own,” the taguel said. “…I’ve never felt that before. I can never trust mankind, but you…perhaps you truly are not like the others.”

“All I would ask is a chance to earn your trust,” Emmeryn breathed. “B-but I fear my time is too short.”

Panne touched the exalt’s hand, her fingers warm against Emmeryn’s cold skin. “What can I do?”

The exalt touched the Emblem by her side. “Please. T-take this to my brother, Chrom. He bears the brand o-on his arm -- this shield cannot fall into the hands of the-ese men.”

The taguel lifted the Emblem, its silver face glowing softly in the dark passage. “What of you?”

“…I have done all I can,” the exalt whispered. “Stay with him. Give him a cha-ance. He is a good man. Strong. Kind.”

“…I will place my trust in him,” Panne murmured. “If he is anything like you, I will not find it mislaid.”

Emmeryn smiled. “Thank you. Be safe, Panne.”

The taguel rose, retreating silently through the corridor. As the faint light from the Emblem faded into darkness, the exalt closed her eyes, settling against the wall at her back. The pain had faded, along with the cold, leaving only exhaustion. 

Her mind drifted to her brother. She prayed he was safe, and that the treasure she had guarded would reach him safely. It was quite the torch she had passed to him, in the Emblem. She hated to leave such a heavy burden to him. 

But she could do no more now. A curious warmth enveloped her, her shaky breaths deepening as they slowed. Memories drifted in and out of focus. Her siblings’ smiles, their laughter, as they played in the halls of the palace. Their excitement at the first snowfall in Ylisstol’s evergreen gardens. The peace in their expressions, and in the faces of all their people, at the annual Celebration of Naga’s Light. 

With all her heart, she had loved them. And though it pained her to leave them, she had faith in her brother. In her stead, he would lead them to peace once more. 

A deeper darkness settled over her. And with it, she let sleep spirit her away.

***

This was a losing battle.

It was not only the fact that he could not focus as much as he desperately needed. They were a mere four, and Robin could not count the enemies that had overrun the palace. There seemed no end to them: for every assassin struck down, another appeared from around a corner, through a doorway, out of the darkness between torches. 

Sheltered behind them, Lissa struggled to keep up with their wounds. They could not hold out here. “Captain,” he panted. “We need to retreat.”

“Not until we find Emmeryn,” he snapped. 

“We’re outmatched,” the tactician insisted. “We have to escape while we have the chance.” 

“Not until we find Emmeryn,” Chrom repeated. 

They’d seen no sign of her yet. The exalt’s chambers were empty but for the looters. They had maneuvered with difficulty into the next halls, the next rooms, and still no trace. Robin did not know the palace. He did not know where she might have hidden. He only knew that they were in danger, and it mounted with every moment they stayed. 

As Chrom engaged another barbarian, the tactician caught a faint movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning toward the hall they’d left, he called the magic circles forth--

And paused. 

The figure approaching was different. She bounded, lithe and agile, like no human he had ever seen. Something gleamed in her hands…

“Where did you get that?” 

The prince’s sword shone in the torchlight as he rushed past. The figure paused, eyes narrowed…

…before holding a shield out to the captain. “You are Chrom. The exalt entrusts this to your care.”

“Who are you?” the tactician asked as the prince reached out, taking the silver plate from her hands. 

“I am Panne,” the woman said. “The last of the taguel. I am here to honor my warren’s debt to the exalt -- and she bade me see the shield passed to her brother.”

Robin had never seen a taguel except in books. But he had no time to marvel as Lissa fell to her knees. Crouching beside her, he saw no signs of injury -- no arrows, no burns, no cuts -- but she shivered fitfully as she looked at the shield in her brother’s hands. 

“Where is she?”

Chrom’s voice sounded unfamiliar as the tactician helped the trembling princess to her feet. Tight. Breathless. Shaking.

The woman said nothing. 

“Please. Tell me where she is.”

“Your sister said that this cannot fall into enemy hands,” the taguel said, touching the edge of the shield. “If you man-spawn wish to survive this night, you will flee now, and take that with you.”

Robin feared the only thing keeping Lissa on her feet was her tight grip on his arm. “Captain, what’s going on?”

“It’s the Fire Emblem,” he said softly. 

A terrible chill stole the tactician’s breath. Much had been written about the treasure of Ylisse’s ruling house. He had never imagined that he would see it. 

And now it glowed before him, its silver surface streaked with blood. 

“I can’t leave her,” the prince whispered. “I can’t just leave her. We have to--”

“We have to do what she would have wanted,” Robin murmured, touching Chrom’s shoulder. He hated the words even as he spoke them. Necessary or not, their cruelty cut his tongue. “We can come back. But for now we have to go.”

“At least one of you man-spawn has sense,” the taguel snorted. 

“Blue, we might have a problem,” Gaius piped up. The tactician glanced over his shoulder at the shadows looming in the torchlight from the next hall -- too many to count, bleeding together into monstrous creatures --

“This way.”

Chrom moved to the nearest wall, lifting a tapestry to reveal a narrow gap in the stones -- less a passage than a hole, hastily concealed. The thief leapt through, followed by the taguel, before Robin helped the princess through. 

He paused, reaching out to the prince. “You’re coming with us, aren’t you?”

The captain gave no answer. But after a long moment’s hesitation, he took the tactician’s hand, following the rest through the opening and letting the wall hanging fall behind him. 

Chrom said nothing more as he led them down a narrow servant’s stair, through the deserted kitchen, and out into the night. Fires blazed across the castle grounds, illuminating fallen soldiers, Ylissean and enemy alike, and those still fighting for the upper hand--

“Milord!”

Robin had never been happier to hear Frederick’s voice. The great knight reined his horse in beside them, relief clear in his face. “Gods, I was out of my mind with worry! Are you alright, milord? Milady?”

The prince and princess did not speak as the rest of the Shepherds rallied around them, worn and bloody but still standing. The Emblem in Chrom’s hands shook very slightly, torchlight shimmering across the single gemstone in its face. 

Frederick’s face paled. “Where is the exalt?” he asked.

The prince shook his head. 

No one spoke. The Shepherds looked between themselves, shock, disbelief, and dismay flashing across their faces. 

“What do we do now?” the great knight asked, his voice hoarse. 

All eyes turned to the captain. 

Chrom lifted his gaze slowly to the sky above, smoke blotting out the stars he and Robin had marveled at not so long ago. How had things fallen apart so quickly?

“We go north,” the captain said. “Request aid from Ferox.”

“What about the capital?” Maribelle asked. 

“We’ll return to with reinforcements from Ferox. But we have to keep the Fire Emblem out of their hands.”

The Shepherds quieted as the prince secured the shield on his arm. Moving slowly, the captain led the way through the burning gardens to a narrow cleft in the rear wall, hidden among the smoldering maples. The roar of battle at their backs masked the sound as they widened the breach for the horses, slipping one by one into the barren woods beyond. 

The tactician cast one last glance at the capital, the castle’s blazing bringing false sunrise to the halidom. The forest to the west had been bathed in the same light, the night he met the Shepherds. 

Nothing in his worst nightmares could have prepared him for that portent’s meaning.


	9. Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the exalt gone and the Fire Emblem passed down, the Shepherds press northward to seek aid from Regna Ferox. But the loss weighs heavily on Ylisse's soldiers, and each must find a way to face their grief...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Warnings: Language**
> 
>   
>  This chapter is something of an interlude. A moment to look at some of our characters, and how they cope with the disasters in their lives.
> 
> More perspective shifts this chapter. Dashes (-) still indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

They marched through the night, with Robin guiding them by the northern star once the smoke from Ylisstol thinned enough to see. Everyone was tired by morning, but no one wanted to stop. Not even Frederick, who so often acted as their voice of reason. So they trudged on in silence, through the cold brown fields that had been warm and green when last they came this way.

As the sun touched the horizon, they arrived at a small town. Frederick took the mounted soldiers with him to purchase supplies, returning with enough tents and blankets for everyone and some food for supper. 

Not that anyone had much of an appetite. Even the tactician ate more out of habit than hunger, barely tasting the food on his plate and refraining from a second helping. He had no interest. 

Robin volunteered for the first watch. He had been fully ready to argue that he’d gone much longer without sleep than this -- but no one questioned. They retreated as one to their tents, leaving the tactician with only the fire for company. 

At least it made some sound. A part of him had grown accustomed to the bustle of a busy camp, the chatter and laughter of its troops. That alone made the silence unnerving -- but the despair that had taken root among the Shepherds made it oppressive. He wanted to scream, but he feared even that would not break the stillness that had followed them from the capital. 

“Looks like you an’ me are the only ones keeping our wits about us.”

Robin glanced up as Gaius dropped to the ground beside him. “I suppose so,” the tactician murmured. “They’re grieving. They need time.”

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I blame ‘em for being upset or anything,” the thief said. “But this seems a little much, y’know?”

“I don’t think so,” Robin murmured, rubbing the back of his hand. “…I didn’t know her well. We only spoke twice -- once when I joined the Shepherds, and once privately on our way back from the border pass. But…she was kind to me. She accepted me without question. Simply standing in her presence was…”

“You’re not gonna get all weepy on me, here, are you?” the thief asked. 

He had been thinking about it, yes. It felt good to speak at all. 

“What did she mean to you?” the tactician asked. 

“Y’mean, the exalt?” Gaius asked. Robin nodded as the thief leaned back, pulling a satchel from under his cloak and rolling a few candies into his palm. “Not a lot. I mean, she was a sweet lady, but it’s not like I ever met her or anything.”

“But what did she _mean_ to you,” the tactician pressed. 

“Y’lost me.”

“The exalt meant something different to everyone in this camp. She was a symbol of peace for her people. A beloved sister to her family. A paragon of nobility for the aristocrats, and a kind-hearted supporter of the commoners. For me…she was a beacon of hope. I believed that…maybe there was a place for me in Ylisse, because of her. A place where my birth, my bloodline, my beliefs, didn’t matter. Where I could be free. Maybe even _happy._ ”

His fingers tightened on the back of his marked hand. “They took that hope from me last night. They stole the peace of a nation, destroyed all the good she had done -- Chrom and Lissa lost their sister, Ylisse lost its _savior,_ and for what?”

Robin rubbed his eyes. So much for not getting weepy. 

“…I dunno,” Gaius muttered. “Guy who hired me just told me they wanted to break into a vault. Figured it’d be easy money -- wasn’t until we were actually at the castle and headin’ inside that he said anything about killing. I might rob people blind, but murder ain’t my cup of tea. Which is why I joined up with Blue. …not that it did much good.”

The thief dropped his candies back in the bag, pulling the drawstrings tight. “I never met the exalt. Kinda hoped I might get a chance, someday. Never met anybody who had a bad word t’say about her, though. Used to be that thieves got a hand chopped off if they got caught, but she got rid of that. Not that I’ve gotten caught,” he winked. “…heard she always gave everybody their say when she was at court. Even thieves. Might not’ve made the nobles too happy, when she knocked down the punishment on some of ‘em. But she helped a lot of people. All kinds of people, not just nobles. I suppose…she meant there’d always be another chance to do it right when things went wrong. …guess we won’t have that anymore, huh.”

“I doubt Chrom or Lissa would reverse any of their sister’s laws,” Robin murmured. “But until we go back to Ylisstol…it’s in the hands of regents. There’s no telling what they’ll do.”

Silence settled over them again. Robin pulled his coat closer around him to stave off the chill, though it did little to warm the cold fear that had seeped into his bones since their escape from the capital. 

“You’re a real downer, y’know that?” Gaius grumbled. 

“It’s a curse,” the tactician sighed. “The Captain says I should use my sense of humor more, but it’s rather rusty from neglect.”

The thief snorted. “It really is, if that was supposed to be a joke.”

“It wasn’t.”

Gaius grinned, dumping a few more confections into his palm before offering the pouch to Robin. “Well, maybe this’ll help. Sugar always perks me up.”

“Thank you.” The tactician took one, examining it for a moment before popping it into his mouth. Oddly enough, the sweetness did seem to help. “So who hired you?”

“Didn’t give a name,” the thief mumbled through a mouthful of candies. “Scary guy, though. Tall, dark, and creepy. Wearin’ _way_ too much jewelry. Lots’a black and purple. Kinda like that coat, actually.”

Grimleal, then. His suspicions had been spot-on. 

“That mean anything to you?”

“It confirms who our enemy is,” Robin sighed. “But it comes as no surprise.”

“…so what’re we gonna do now?”

“Go north. We secured an alliance with the ruling Khan of Regna Ferox not long ago, so we can request aid. I imagine the Feroxis will advocate war, given the circumstances. And I suspect Chrom will agree. From there…we’ll either head south to reclaim Ylisstol before entering Plegia through the border pass, or go west to cross Ferox’s border with Plegia. My guess is we’ll return to Ylisse, try to settle affairs in the capital, perhaps rally more troops among the willing and able of the guard force. It would take too long to train recruits from the citizenry, and after the Shepherds just finished spreading a message that the people would be safe from a draft…I don’t think the captain would renege on his sister’s word.”

“Damn. You know a lot about this, don’t you?”

“It’s my job, apparently.” 

“Must keep you busy.”

“Better that than bored.”

“You busy now?”

“Well, I’m keeping watch.”

“How about I take over an’ you do somethin’ about your clothes. Not to be the pot callin’ the kettle black or nothin’, but It hurts just lookin’ at you.”

The tactician glanced down at his shirt, blackened with dried blood. He’d forgotten about it entirely. “…I see your point.”

“Go. I’ll hold down the fort ‘til you get back,” Gaius insisted, shooing Robin off. 

Well, at least he could be sure he was alone. That had always been the most difficult part of cleaning up to now. The creek running by their camp was small and bitterly cold, numbing his fingers as he worked, but it sufficed for washing the grime out. Scrubbing the dried blood from his skin proved far more uncomfortable, but equally necessary: the wound he’d taken in the gardens still held from Lissa’s magic, but not well. It would need another treatment to truly begin mending. With the Shepherds in their current state, it might be best to dip into his vulnerary--

A hoarse shout frightened the birds from the trees.

Snatching the Thunder tome from his coat, the tactician turned, ready for an attack…

…that did not come. 

Another roar and a dull thud. Shrugging his coat back on and buttoning it tight against the chill, the tactician folded his damp tunic over his arm and trudged up the incline toward the source of the noise. The closer he drew, the more it sounded like someone was chopping lumber, though he couldn’t imagine who would be out in the middle of the night at such work…

He paused as he finally located the sound. Not a lumberjack, but a Shepherd. Sully lunged at a long-dead oak as he watched from the shadows, her blade biting into already scarred trunk. She struck again, carving a deep notch in the wood. Again--

The sword snapped, leaving the hilt in her hands and the blade stuck fast. 

“ _Dammit!_ ” she snarled, flinging the useless grip into the bushes. “Dammit _dammit DAMMIT!!_ ”

Robin made no effort to muffle his footsteps as he approached the cavalier. She whirled at the noise behind her, red-faced and breathing hard. “The _fuck_ are you doin’ out here?” she demanded. 

The tactician removed the sword from his belt and offered it to her. “You can put this to better use than I could.”

Sully stared at him. Which, he supposed, was warranted. What a strange sight he must be…

“Thanks,” she mumbled, taking the sheathed blade. He half expected her to draw it and resume her attack -- but instead she let it rest by her side, squinting at him through the dark. “But I mean it, what the _fuck_ are you doin’ out here?”

“Laundry,” he admitted.

“In the middle of the night?”

“It was the first opportunity I’ve had,” he shrugged. “…what are you doing out here?” 

“What’s it look like? I’m training,” she sniffed. “Didn’t exactly get a lot of time for it, marchin’ all day, an’ all.”

She lied confidently. But he could see the truth carved into the tree behind her. 

“As you say,” he murmured. 

“You callin’ me a liar?” she snapped, beginning to unsheathe her new blade. 

The tactician did not reply. After a moment the cavalier settled, releasing her grip on the pommel. “If you’re so smart, mister _tactician,_ then what do _you_ think I’m out here doin’?”

“Grieving.”

Silence. Her eyes widened for just an instant, then narrowed back into slits. “The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Robin walked forward, touching the flat of her ruined sword. “Most people use a wooden weapon when they train, to keep from damaging the blades they use on the battlefield.”

“Hey, genius, we left the capital without any supplies,” she huffed. 

“You’re more resourceful than that,” he said, lifting a sturdy branch from the forest floor and testing its heft. It made a satisfying sound when he struck the battered tree, and showed no signs of splintering. 

Sully offered no more protests. 

He let the stick fall back to the leaves, rubbing his cold hands together before shoving them into his crowded pockets. Ordinarily he would leave the cavalier to her mourning in peace, but something about the tension in the air told him there was more--

“Why didn’t you save her?”

The tactician flinched. As much as he wanted, desperately, to hide beneath his hood, he could not escape this.

“You’re supposed to be some fuckin’ _miracle_ worker, right? So why the fuck didn’t you save the exalt?” she demanded. 

“I tried--”

“You should’ve tried harder!”

“I didn’t know--”

“You could’ve done more!”

“I did everything I--”

“It wasn’t enough!”

Dropping the sword, she stormed forward, snatching the branch he’d abandoned in the leaves and swinging it over and over at the gnarled trunk. “I’d have given my fucking _life_ if it would’ve saved hers! Look at us! We’ve got _nothing!_ I’ll hunt down _every fucking one of those miserable dastards if it’s the last thing I_ \--”

The branch splintered. Sully held it even still, her shoulders shaking with every gasp. Robin said nothing, pulling his coat tighter around him. 

“Chrom’s one of my best friends,” she sniffed, swiping an arm across her eyes. “We grew up together. Playin’ knights an’ bandits in the fields around Ylisstol, beating the shit out of each other with sticks to toughen up so one day we’d be good enough to become _real_ knights. An’ when we finally pull it off, what good was it? Our most important mission, an’ we fuck it up.”

“We did everything we could,” the tactician whispered. 

“Did we, though?” Sully asked, her voice hoarse. “Isn’t there _anything_ we could’ve done?”

“I’ve been thinking about that since we left the capital,” he murmured. “We were outmanned in the castle, and our injuries didn’t help matters. The explosions must have been a diversion to draw the guard force away from the exalt, because there were assassins in the gardens before it and barbarians in the halls immediately after. The only way we could have changed the outcome is if the Shepherds had ignored the conflict outside and mounted a charge within the palace. And there’s no possible way any of us could have known that. …you didn’t fail the exalt.”

The cavalier’s shoulders slumped. Picking up her abandoned blade, Robin held it out to her again. “We need you, Sully,” he said. “Your strength carries us forward. Nothing yet has stopped you -- and I doubt that this will, either.”

She took the sword in hand, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Well, I’ve still got a bunch of dastards to hunt down.”

“Precisely. But I do hope you’ll stay and lend the Shepherds your strength in the meantime.”

“Of course I will,” she snorted. “You ninnies wouldn’t last two hours without me.”

That sounded more like the Sully he’d come to know. 

“And _speakin’_ of ninnies,” she added, planting her fists on her hips, “ _you’re_ the worst of the lot -- get the fuck back to camp an’ get some fuckin’ sleep! For somebody who’s supposed to be so brilliant, you can be a damn fool. Laundry in the middle of the fuckin’ night -- get your godsdamn priorities straight.”

“Alright, alright, I’m going!” he said, holding his hands up. As he started back toward the fire just barely visible through the trees, the cavalier fell into step beside him. “Don’t you trust me to get back on my own?”

“Not a bit,” she agreed. But she was smiling, which seemed a great improvement in his mind. 

True to her word, Sully went so far as to escort the tactician to his tent. Laying his still-damp shirt out to dry in the far corner, Robin wrapped a blanket around himself and curled up to sleep. He would have more troubles to tend when he woke -- but he could face them, now that a faint ray of hope had returned to his heart.

***

When Lissa woke up, the camp was just as quiet as it had been when she went to sleep. If it weren’t for the steady sunlight coming through the canvas, she’d have thought it was still the middle of the night. But when she poked her head out, most of the Shepherds were already gathered around the fire with breakfast.

Frederick handed her a bowl as soon as she sat down with them. But she didn’t feel like eating anything, and the smell of it made her stomach knot up. It wasn’t anything special, but all she could think about was that night, and how she’d been so happy eating dinner with Emm and Chrom, and how that would never happen again.

She wanted to cry. More. Again. She’d sobbed into her blanket until she fell asleep the night before, and even though it hadn’t made her feel any better, it was all she felt like doing. She missed her sister. And she missed her brother, too. Even though he was sitting right across the fire from her, he’d never seemed so far away.

When Chrom stood up, the rest of the Shepherds followed. Tents came down. The fire went out. And then they marched. 

Lissa didn’t feel like walking, either. So when Maribelle offered her a hand, the princess took it, settling behind her friend on the pony’s back and trying not to think about everything that had happened. 

It didn’t go well. At least when she was marching she could think about putting one foot in front of the other. Sitting behind Maribelle, she could only look at the other Shepherds. Not a smile anywhere. Most of them seemed miserable. Sully looked ready to kick someone’s face in. And Robin…

…Robin didn’t look any different from usual. 

She stared at him. How could he be so calm, after everything that had happened? Didn’t he feel _anything?_

…maybe not. When she thought about it, what expressions had he shown before? Calm and fear. Were those the only emotions he felt?

…she envied him. She’d give just about anything if she could stop feeling this way. If she could just stop thinking about what had happened, and what she’d lost, and how everything was going to change…she might not be _happy,_ but at least she wouldn’t hurt anymore. 

They made camp again before nightfall, and in total silence. She didn’t feel like sitting around and picking at dinner, though. So she crawled into her tent, hugged her knees to her chest, and did her best not to think anymore--

“Lissa, darling?”

The princess jumped, scrubbing at her eyes with the hem of her sleeve and trying not to look as miserable as she felt. “C-come in.”

Maribelle slid inside with a whole china tea set. Lissa wasn’t sure where she’d found it -- had all that been in her saddlebags? How did she keep it from breaking? 

“You retired without supper,” the troubadour said, settling primly on the ground before placing the tray between them. “And you didn’t eat breakfast, either. You really need to eat something, darling. Even if it’s just a tea cake or two.”

Lissa forced a smile. “I’m okay.”

Maribelle didn’t look convinced. “I know that this…this must be so difficult for you. And I swear, I’ll see those brutes ripped limb from limb in a Ylissean court as soon as we return. But I’m here for you, dear. If you need to talk about anything, or if you simply need someone, I’ll _always_ be there for you. You know that, don’t you?”

“I know,” the princess said, taking the teacup the duchess offered. “I really appreciate it, Maribelle. But I’m okay.”

“Then what’s on your mind now?” 

Lissa sipped her tea without tasting it. She didn’t want to say that she was thinking about Emm, and her smile, and how she’d never get to see it again. “I need to take care of Chrom’s wound,” she mumbled around the rim of the cup. “I forgot, and he probably did, too.”

“Let me do it, darling,” Maribelle insisted. “You stay here and enjoy your tea.”

“I can--”

“Please.” The princess subsided at the duchess’ plea. “Let me help you, dear. Even if it’s this one small thing to put your mind at ease. Let me do this for you.”

“…okay,” Lissa said, smiling faintly as relief eased the troubadour’s expression. “Thanks, Maribelle. I really appreciate it.”

“Tut tut, think nothing of it,” the duchess replied, dusting off her breeches as she stood. “And don’t forget your tea cakes, darling.”

The princess watched her friend leave the tent, taking a few more sips before setting her cup aside. When she thought about it, her brother wasn’t the only person who’d been hurt. Robin had, too, hadn’t he? And she hadn’t checked on him, either. 

She didn’t feel like tea or cakes. Maybe doing something worthwhile would make her feel better. Maribelle had looked pretty happy when she’d left to take care of Chrom, after all.

But he wasn’t around the campfire. He wasn’t in any of the tents she peeked into, either. Maybe he was scouting around, or getting water for the camp? He’d taken the first watch the night before, too…nothing got to him, did it?

Even if she didn’t know where to find him, searching would at least give her something better to do than sit around. So she took her staff and headed out into the trees until she could barely see the cooking fires behind her, pausing to get her bearings (not that it helped, since she didn’t even know where they were) and striking off in a random direction. 

About five minutes of aimless walking put her right back by the tents. Well, that didn’t work--

Or maybe it did: she caught a glimpse of the tactician’s hooded coat disappearing into the trees on the other side off the camp. Going wide around the clearing, she hurried on into the trees, hoping she hadn’t lost him by taking the long way…

…and very nearly tripped over him in her haste to catch up.

“Lissa!” Robin yelped, jumping up from the rock he’d been sitting on as she stumbled. “What are you doing out here?”

“Looking for you,” she huffed. 

“Did I do something wrong?” 

She opened her mouth to say no -- and then realized that his shirt had a fresh red stain where his wound was. “You dummy!” she shouted, brandishing her staff at him. “You’re still hurt! You should have said something!”

“I didn’t want to trouble you--”

“Gods, you’re as stupid as my brother sometimes,” she huffed, pointing at the rock he’d been using as a seat. 

“In some ways, stupider,” he agreed. But he sat down without argument, and Lissa called on her staff’s magic to tend his injury. Maybe it was just her imagination, but the glow seemed dimmer than usual.

And he seemed to notice it, too. “That’s okay. Would it make you feel better if I told you I was coming out here to take care of it myself?” he asked, pulling a vulnerary out of his pocket. 

“No,” she sniffed. It made her feel _worse._ Now she didn’t have anything to distract her, _and_ she couldn’t even do what she was supposed to be _best_ at. 

“…what is it?” 

He put the vulnerary away, and somehow that made her feel even _more_ awful. She hated feeling this bad about everything. She just wanted it to go away. 

“Can you teach me? How to be calm all the time?”

She twisted the staff between her hands as she glanced up at him. He stared right back at her, his expression completely blank. “Why would you want to learn that?”

“Because I don’t want to be sad anymore. I don’t want to cry anymore, I don’t want to hurt, I just want to -- I don’t want to _feel_ anything anymore, because all I ever feel is miserable, and nothing makes it any better.”

She started crying again. Gods, when would this stop?

Robin stood up and opened his arms. 

He probably didn’t mean it as an invitation. But the way he moved and gestured, just for a second, reminded her of Emmeryn, and how she’d put anything else aside when Lissa came crying to her, and how her arms felt so safe and warm when she was scared or sad.

The princess threw her arms around him, burying her face in his shirt as she sobbed. And instead of pushing her off, he wrapped his coat around her. 

She cried for a long time. She thought she’d used up all her tears before, but they just kept coming. Even when her sobs turned to sniffles, she didn’t let go, and he didn’t try to make her. 

“Do you feel better?” he asked. 

“…not really,” she mumbled. She felt him riffling around in the coat pockets for a few moments before he offered her a handkerchief -- the same one she’d given to him after the fight at the ruins, from the looks of it. She took it, scrubbing at her eyes before blowing her nose with a loud, unladylike honk. 

“I didn’t imagine so,” he sighed. “And learning to be calm won’t make you feel better, either.”

“What do you mean?” she asked. “You almost never get upset, or angry, or--”

“You’re wrong.”

She peered up at him. His face looked the same as always…but his eyes seemed kind of sad. “Being calm isn’t about not feeling anything. It’s about appearances. I get frustrated, I get scared, but…the calm is a mask I wear over it. And I’ve been wearing it for so long, I don’t know how to take it off anymore.”

Lissa’s heart sank. “So you’re hurting, too?”

He nodded. “There is no easy way out,” he murmured as she wiped her eyes again. “We cannot conquer loss. The more we fight it, the more we hurt ourselves. We have to accept it. And it’s difficult. We don’t want the world to change. But that’s what loss does. It changes our world -- sometimes in small ways that no one else notices…and sometimes in ways that bring a country to its knees. But we can choose how it changes us. We can remember the pain of it, the fear, the loneliness…or we can remember the good that came before. The love and safety and _hope._ And what we choose will guide the rest of our lives.”

She sniffled as he pulled the coat closer around them, fending off a cold wind. He smelled a little like the fields in spring, when the farmers started tilling. Earthy and warm. 

“I don’t want to hurt anymore,” she mumbled. “I don’t want to be sad. I’m tired of crying. S-so…so how do change it?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Only you can decide that.”

That wasn’t a very good answer. Her sister had always given her more than that. She opened her mouth to protest…

…and stopped. 

What would Emmeryn want her to do?

The tactician looked down at her as she finally let go of him. “When we were little…when we cried, Emm would always comfort us, and tell us not to cry, but to smile. She said…she said it made her happiest when we smiled. And I always wanted to make her happy, so I always tried to smile. …even if she’s not here…I can still do what made her happy, right?”

“I think that’s what she would want,” Robin agreed. “And I think it would make everyone else feel better, too.”

She smiled, even as tears welled up in her eyes again, and he returned it in softer kind. As he turned back toward camp, though, she grabbed his sleeve, pointing at the rock. “You’re being stupid again.”

“…so I am,” he chuckled. And when she tried her staff again, the magic looked bright and warm. Just like it was supposed to.

As soon as they got back to camp, Maribelle charged right for them, grabbing the princess in a protective embrace. “Lissa! Oh, darling, where have you been!? I came back to check on you and you weren’t there -- I’ve been worried _sick!_ Are you alright? And _you!_ ” she snapped, turning on the tactician (who wisely took a step back). “What were you doing with my precious Lissa? If you touched a single hair on her head I swear I’ll--”

“It’s okay, Maribelle,” the princess laughed. The duchess whirled, and Lissa smiled at her. “We were just talking.”

“Are you sure?” the troubadour asked. “Because if he did anything even the _least_ bit untoward I can--”

Lissa threw her arms around Maribelle’s shoulders and hugged her tight. The duchess seemed shocked…but after a moment, she still returned the embrace. “You’re quite sure you’re alright?”

“I’m gonna be fine,” the princess murmured. 

It still hurt. And maybe some part of her always would. But she could get through it. For Emm -- and for Chrom, Maribelle, and everyone else -- she would be okay.

***

He still couldn’t believe she was gone.

It had all happened so fast. The attack in the garden. The explosion. The rush of guards. The strange woman, racing down the hall…the weight of the Fire Emblem in his hands…their retreat from the palace. The silent Shepherds, crowded around him. Frederick’s voice, broken, speaking words he could barely understand. 

Chrom had told them something. That much was clear.

And he supposed they had listened. The days had seemed a blur of browns and greys, trudging without purpose, stopping only for food that did not fill him and sleep that gave him no rest. 

Never before had he felt the true burden of leadership. Since they were children, Emmeryn had ruled Ylisse as the exalt -- and that was _right_ : her kindness, her patience, had soothed the wounds of their people after their father’s war. He had chosen to lead the militia, guarding their citizens as shepherds do their flocks…and while there were responsibilities there in keeping his soldiers fit and well (and for keeping _himself_ fit and well, as Frederick so often reminded him), they had seemed small. Inconsequential. 

Leadership in battle had never seemed so frightening as the realization that he would need to lead his country. Facing death had never stirred such fear in him as the thought of facing the Ylissean people. 

He had never had to live without her. She had protected him from the day he was born. And on the day of her death, she had ensured that the Fire Emblem reached him, that it might protect him and all their people where she could not. 

He felt lost. Alone. The Shepherds grieved, looking to him for strength he could not muster. And now the camp beyond his tent was deathly silent. No speech. No laughter. No movement. 

He touched the shield his sister had left to him, running his fingers over the cool gemstone set in its silver face. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t keep his thoughts from dark places: did she suffer long? had they found her again, after she passed the Emblem on? had they drawn out her death, or did they show her some small fraction of the mercy she’d used in her every dealing with them? or was she still alone, somewhere hidden, out of reach? would she still be there, when the Shepherds returned to the capital? if she was, would he be able to face the consequences of his failures, and lay her to rest? 

…had she been afraid, in those final moments? For herself? For her people? For her family?

“Chrom?”

Robin’s voice. But he didn’t want to talk of strategy and plans. He wanted the peace that had been stolen from him by an assassin’s blade. 

Footsteps. And then someone sat down beside him. 

He didn’t look up. He wondered if Emm had ever been so rude to a guest, uninvited or otherwise--

Warm fingers folded around his hand. The prince glanced over, then returned his gaze to the Fire Emblem on the ground beside him. Robin’s coat was instantly recognizable. And he still did not want to talk. 

The tactician said something. Chrom didn’t care. He said something else, and Chrom still didn’t care. But he never heard a question in Robin’s tone, so he supposed the words themselves didn’t really matter so much. And after so much silence, he had to admit that the soft sound of a _voice_ was almost comforting. 

So when silence crept back over the tent, he noticed. He glanced over at the tactician, who did not meet his eye in return, instead keeping his gaze locked on the prince’s hand in his own. Maybe he’d run out of things to say. He had never been much of a conversationalist before, and now seemed a poor time to develop those skills--

“You’re not listening to a word I say, are you.”

He hadn’t been, no. But he was now, for better or worse.

“I understand. I can’t…I can’t say I feel your pain, because I don’t. I _can’t._ She wasn’t my sister. I didn’t know her well. But…but I wish I could have known her better. She was kind to me. And losing her…it’s like losing hope.”

Yes. That was it exactly.

“This has been difficult for everyone, but for you, the weight must be unbearable. Not just the loss, but everything that falls to you because of it. The people will say that they stand behind you, but that only makes the burden worse, because it means they’re looking to you. You can’t make a mistake, or show weakness, because they need you. You can’t even mourn, because you have a duty to uphold. It scours you hollow.”

The tactician’s hand shook, his voice quieting as he continued to speak. “You might feel alone. But you don’t have to be. I’ll stand beside you. For whatever comfort it might be worth, I would help to bear your burden. I…”

His words dropped to a whisper. But in the silence, they were impossible to miss. “I love you.”

For the first time since the attack on Ylisstol had robbed his world of purpose, of _meaning,_ Chrom heard Robin’s words and understood. 

The prince wondered, briefly, if this were some poor attempt at a joke -- but the tactician did not smile, or laugh, or even look up at Chrom for a reaction. And he’d made it clear that humor did not come easy to him. Not a jest, then. And more than just camaraderie. 

The tactician started to rise, and the captain’s fingers caught his hand. “Wait.”

He couldn’t remember the last word he’d spoken since their flight from Ylisse. His voice sounded hoarse in his own ears -- but it stopped Robin from going further. The tactician paused, surprise written in the curve of his brows…and then he sat back, his fingers shaking very slightly in the prince’s hand. 

“I-I’m sorry if I overstepped my bo--”

Whatever else Robin meant to say, the prince did not let him finish. His hand curved around the back of the tactician’s neck, pulling him into a rough kiss. 

His lips felt soft. In the brief fantasies he’d entertained, he’d imagined something different from kissing a man. But the tactician’s mouth was soft against Chrom’s, and his breath warmed the prince’s cheek when they broke apart.

“Chrom--”

The prince stifled Robin’s words in another kiss. The tactician made a quiet noise against Chrom’s mouth, one hand sliding hesitantly across his shoulders. As the prince broke away for breath, Robin touched their foreheads together, freeing his other hand to touch the captain’s cheek. “You’re crying,” he murmured. 

He wasn’t sure when he’d started. But the tears came, unwelcome and unceasing, even as the tactician wiped them away. 

“I miss her.”

It hurt. He hadn’t noticed it before, numb from the shock and disbelief of what had happened. But he felt it now, a hollow ache in his heart like something had been torn from his chest. Wrapping his other arm around Robin, he pulled the tactician closer, desperate for _something_ to fill the void she’d left behind. 

Robin went without protest, his arms curling tight around the prince’s shoulders and holding fast. “I know. I know it’s hard. Telling you that they all miss her, too, or that they worry about you, makes you feel like you shouldn’t hurt because they need you, but -- but you shouldn’t have to be alone. You’re _not_ alone. You shouldn’t have to hide it. _You_ need someone, as much as they need you.”

The tactician nuzzled Chrom’s cheek. “You don’t have to talk to me. You don’t have to talk at all, if you don’t want to. But don’t bury it. The more you try to hide that pain without facing it, the more it starts to control your life. It’s not something that ever goes away -- there’s always something missing, but it hurts less if you can come to terms with it. It’s not easy. But if you’re not alone, it’s…it’s not as hard as it could be.”

“How do you know?” the prince asked. He sounded so certain. No book could teach this--

“My mother,” Robin murmured. “When I was young. I barely remember her face now, and I was alone after she passed. I was afraid. So I buried that loss, thinking it was the only way to survive. It made me…it made me who I am. And I don’t want to see that for you. …you don’t have to be alone,” he breathed. “I’m here for you, if you need someone. To talk, or to listen, or…or just to be there. I will be.”

Chrom felt like those words should have helped. But the pain in his chest remained as he drew back, leaning against the tactician’s shoulder and rubbing one eye with the heel of his palm. Robin’s hands settled in his lap, his fingers rubbing the back of his glove in a familiar nervous gesture. 

They sat in silence for a few moments. With nothing else to occupy his mind, the implications of what had just happened began to sink in. He’d been rash. And perhaps he should regret that. But…he appreciated the tactician’s presence. His words. His understanding. As quiet and reserved as he seemed, Robin had proven himself a true friend in the short time he’d been among them. 

Chrom had never stopped to consider him as anything more. But…perhaps there was room for affection there. And sitting here with the tactician, he felt more at ease than he had since their departure from Ylisse. 

He reached out and folded one hand over Robin’s. The tactician twitched slightly as the prince’s fingers wrapped around his…

…and then settled his other hand over Chrom’s. 

He still had no interest in words. And the ache in his chest had not abated. But the company was welcome…and with it, the pain felt somehow easier to bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been joking with my beta reader that a lot of the private conversations going on here are pseudo-supports. Robin and Lissa just hit A rank. Robin and Chrom just hit S.
> 
> This chapter includes one of the earliest pieces I wrote of this story. I'd typed out a few things here and there for a while, parts of something larger, a work that I didn't think would ever really come together -- but with some encouragement from close friends, I decided to start building the whole. So much has changed, even since then -- but some things haven't changed much at all. And aside from a few details, the little block I started out with is the same as it was when I first put typed it out.
> 
> I really appreciate the lovely comments, the kudos, the bookmarks, and the hits this story has seen since I posted the first chapter. This work is near and dear to my heart, and knowing that other people are reading and enjoying it makes me so happy. There's still lots more to come and I'm so excited to write it out -- and I hope you enjoy it as it comes. <3


	10. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon arriving in Ferox, plans are drafted for a war between nations. Chrom seeks solace and distraction both in Robin's company, and comes to realize that the Shepherds' tactician is not what he seems...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Warnings: Language, Implied Suicidal Thoughts**
> 
>   
>  You know what I love?
> 
>  _Character relationships._
> 
> There are some awkward moments in this chapter because relationships are weird and I am not about to deny that charming fact. There's also some magic theory because why not, right? 
> 
> More perspective shifts this chapter. Dashes (-) still indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

Word of the exalt’s assassination reached Ferox well ahead of the Shepherds.

The gates were open by the time the Longfort came into view, and Raimi met them with the wagons as they made their way across the border. “We’ve been expecting you,” she’d said.

At least it saved Chrom the trouble of explaining.

The trip to the Feroxi stronghold was just as quiet as the march north had been. Looking around at the Shepherds now, though, he could see life returning. Resolve. Determination. Anger. Compared to the lost, hopeless troop he’d led from the capital, even those small signs seemed a stark improvement. 

Flavia and Basilio both met the wagons outside the fortress. Judging from the look on Robin’s face, that was not a normal occurrence. But before the prince could open his mouth, Flavia spoke for him. “Welcome back, Prince Chrom. You and your Shepherds are welcome in Ferox. Take your men and rest -- tomorrow we’ll convene a war council to decide how deal with this outrage. This cannot stand.”

“I hate to agree with the upstart,” Basilio grumbled, “but for once, she’s right. This kind of aggression demands swift retaliation. The sooner we get our shit in order, the sooner we can put those maniacs in their place.”

“We can meet now, then--”

“Learn your limits, boy,” the west khan snapped. “You and your troop look ready to drop dead from a stiff breeze. Get a hot meal and a good night’s sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Listen to the old man,” Flavia chuckled. “He might be an ass, but he’s gotten out of enough scrapes to know a thing or two.”

As the captain tried to protest, a hand came to rest on his shoulder. “Let it go,” Robin murmured. “It’s late. You wouldn’t make much progress, even if you did start today.”

Chrom hated to let the time go to waste. But as the khans led the way into the stronghold, he had to concede the argument. 

The clamor and bustle of the great hall made his stomach knot. Not long ago, they’d been here at Emmeryn’s request. The food, the heat, the laughter -- why had this stayed the same, while everything else fell to ruin? 

The frustration simmering in his gut only burned hotter as he fed it, the bitter savor of the meal sating his appetite but whetting his anger. It left him restless. And while Frederick insisted that he should try to rest before the busy day to come, he knew he would end up lying awake in the dark, thinking over everything that had happened and what he would do when he finally met the man who stole his sister’s life--

Gods, he had to get his mind on something else. Maybe a bit of exploration would help. Hopefully the great knight wouldn’t be prowling the halls -- the last thing he needed was a lecture on top of everything else. Slipping out into the corridor--

“Chrom?”

Well, that was short-lived. 

As he turned, though, his disappointment eased. Not Frederick, nor anyone likely to shoo him off to bed. Robin paused, tucking a book under his arm. “What are you doing up?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” the tactician sighed. “I thought I’d read a while and see if that helped.”

“Mind if I come along?” Chrom asked. “I could use some company.”

“Of course.” 

The prince fell into step beside Robin, letting the silence stretch comfortably as they made their way through the fortress’ winding halls. The tactician hadn’t said much since they crossed the Feroxi border -- not that he spoke much in the first place, but the captain had hoped that Robin might open up a bit more after their talk. 

Part of him wondered if that had been a dream. 

The tactician opened a door and walked into a familiar room, bypassing the bookshelves and taking a seat in one of the chairs by the hearth. Chrom moved to stoke the fire, adding another log to the embers and watching the shower of sparks swirl across the stones. “So what do you think tomorrow will entail?” he asked. 

“Well, I had been planning on going through the library to see if there are any tactical records -- Ferox has a long military history, I imagine they should have _something--_ ”

“You’re not coming to the council?” the prince asked. 

Robin looked up at him in surprise. “Am I allowed?”

“Why wouldn’t you be?”

“I thought that war councils were for commanders.”

“And advisors. Gods know Frederick will be there, whether I like it or not. And you are the Shepherds’ tactician. I might be the commander, but the orders I hand down are yours. …I’d feel better, having you there,” he added, settling one hand over Robin’s.

The tactician twitched, ruffling his hair with his free hand. “I-if you’re sure.”

“I am.” An awkward silence settled between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire at his back. Maybe he had imagined it, after all. “Did you mean what you said?” Chrom asked.

“Of course I did!” Robin insisted, finally meeting the prince’s eye. “I just…I don’t…know how to proceed from here.”

Chrom stared for a moment. The tactician fidgeted, turning his gaze back down to the floor. “I find it hard to believe that you haven’t thought about it.” He seemed to think about everything else in exhaustive detail, after all--

“I’m a realist. I never even thought past _telling_ you because I imagined the response would be a resounding denial.”

“Why? Because you’re not a noble?”

“Or because I’m Grimleal,” Robin said, counting off on his fingers, “or because I’m a man, or because I’m a foreigner, or--”

“Alright, I get the point,” Chrom chuckled. “Well, how would you proceed with someone else?”

“I have no godsdamn idea,” the tactician mumbled, pulling his hood up. 

“You’ve never had a girlfriend? …boyfriend?” the prince ventured. 

“The closest things I had to friends of _any_ kind before joining the Shepherds were in books,” Robin said, sharp gestures punctuating his words. “You can’t exactly proposition a fictional character.”

The tactician grew increasingly animated, his voice taking on more and more inflection as he spoke. The prince had never seen him so worked up. It was rather entertaining -- all the more for how needless it all was. 

“So why did you say it?” Chrom asked. “If you were so sure I’d turn you down, why bring it up at all?”

“Because I thought you weren’t listening. I’d hoped that saying it out loud would make it easier to manage--”

The prince tugged Robin’s hood back. The tactician scrambled to pull it up again -- but not fast enough to hide just how red his face had gone. He seemed to realize it, too, making a valiant effort to shrink into the chair (and doing surprisingly well, given his height).

Perhaps that had been cruel. He’d never expected that their level-headed strategist could be flustered so easily, and by something so simple. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, kneeling in front of Robin. “But nothing can happen if you keep hiding.”

The tactician mumbled something into his cowl. Chrom waited patiently, propping his chin in the palm of his hand as an easy smile tugged at his mouth. This was certainly a far cry from the noble ladies that he’d courted on ceremony in the past. Even the shyest of them had been eager for romance, at the very least--

Robin pushed his hood back. If anything, his face looked even redder. “Much better,” the prince said. “Now was that so hard?”

“You have no idea,” the tactician replied.

Grinning, Chrom stood and leaned against the chair, watching Robin fidget with the clasp of his coat. “Relax. You don’t need to worry so much, you know.”

“I can think of at least half a dozen things to--”

“Stop.” The tactician fell silent, wrapping his coat more tightly around him. “You need to calm down. Take a breath. Alright?” 

Robin closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. Chrom shifted, settling his weight on the arm of the chair as the tactician took another slow breath. At least his color seemed to be improving. Pulling himself up from where he’d sunk into the seat, Robin sighed, his hands drifting down to rest in his lap. 

The prince reached out, curling his fingers around the tactician’s. Robin twitched, looking up in surprise -- and Chrom did not waste the opportunity, leaning close to kiss him. 

A tremor ran through the tactician. The prince lingered, tightening his grip reassuringly on Robin’s shaking hand…and after a moment, the tactician’s fingers settled hesitantly on Chrom’s wrist. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” the captain murmured, resting his forehead against Robin’s. The tactician shook his head, for once completely wordless. “The less you hide, the more things like this can happen. Would that be worth it?”

Robin took a shaky breath--

The door behind them opened. 

The tactician’s hood was back up before Chrom had a chance to blink. Turning, he saw a Feroxi guardsman standing in the doorway. “Didn’t expect anyone to still be in here,” the man said. “You gonna be staying long? I can come back to bank the fire--”

“No, I think we’ll be taking our leave,” the prince said as Robin stood. Following the tactician out of the room, Chrom couldn’t help but feel disappointed in how that conversation had ended. Such a shame -- he’d felt like they were making progress before that interruption. 

The tactician stopped, his hand resting on the handle of the nearest door. At the very least, the prince recognized this hallway: his own quarters were a few steps further on. Whether he would be able to sleep or not, he should at least try to rest before the morning council--

“Chrom?”

The captain turned back to find Robin still hovering in the doorway. Glancing up and down the corridor, the tactician pushed his hood back from his still-flushed face. “Th-thank you. It was…it was nice. Talking with you tonight. Perhaps we could…talk again sometime?”

The prince grinned, patting Robin’s shoulder. “I’d like that.”

The tactician glanced up at him for just a moment -- but in that instant, a smile softened his expression into something unrecognizable. 

It was gone as quickly as it appeared. Bowing his head, Robin retreated into his room with a soft good night, closing the door long before Chrom could find the words to reply. 

Moving down the hall to his own quarters, the prince settled into bed, staring at the ceiling through the dark as his thoughts wandered. Had that been happiness on the tactician’s face? He’d never seen that expression before -- the closest Chrom could recall was when Robin laughed, and that had been just as short-lived. When he wasn’t worrying over something, he looked like an entirely different person. 

That was who he wanted to know better. Not the stoic man with a brilliant mind for strategy and years of anxiety carved into the lines of his face, but the one that could be flustered by a hand on his own, and whose smile made him look his age. 

He looked forward to their next conversation. And that expectation eased his tensions enough to finally let him sleep.

\-----

His rest proved short lived.

A Feroxi guardsman woke the prince well before sunrise, escorting him (along with Frederick and Robin, who both stood waiting outside their doors when Chrom emerged) to a familiar room covered in maps and weapon racks. A roaring fire blazed in the hearth along one wall, driving away both the dark and the chill of the early hour, and a hearty assortment of roasted meat and vegetables waited on the long table at the center of the room. 

The khans had already taken their seats, Flavia and her advisors at the eastern end and Basilio with his at the west. The Ylissean company sat between the two leaders, filling their plates as the khans and their guard piled their own dishes high -- but before they could enjoy any of it, the west khan launched into talk of war. 

Perhaps that was simply the Feroxi way. But battle plans and strategies did not help Chrom’s appetite.

They spent the whole of the day in council, debating back and forth about where to strike and when, what troops to mobilize and which to keep back at the border for Ferox’s own defense. The khans seemed to favor entering Plegia from the north, insisting that opposition would be minimal with the bulk of enemy forces stationed along their shared border with Ylisse. The prince spoke little, but Frederick did not hesitate to fill Chrom’s silence, insisting that the people of Ylisse needed to be reassured, first and foremost.

When he chose to speak, Robin’s quiet voice cut easily through even the loudest argument. For all his concerns the night before, neither khan had questioned the tactician’s presence at the table, and while they clearly disagreed when he sided with the great knight, they at least listened to his rationale. 

The prince dreaded the prospect of going back to Ylisse. For that reason alone, he would have sided with the Feroxi leaders -- but Frederick and Robin had valid reasons to advocate returning to the halidom. Gods, he wished Emmeryn were here to guide their course. 

But her absence was what led them here to begin with. 

The sun had long since set by the time the council adjourned for the day. And even as the Feroxi leaders left the chamber, Frederick attempted to pull the prince into further discussion. But Chrom had no interest in more debate. He felt restless and frustrated after a long and otherwise fruitless day, and all he wanted to do was get out. He stood without a word and retreated, ignoring the great knight’s call and striking off at random. 

Moving helped to loosen the knot in his stomach. He considered, briefly, trying to find his way to the training grounds -- but judging by the clamor coming from the great hall, the Feroxis (and likely the Shepherds with them) had finished their daily regimen. No point in going out in the dark. 

Instead he wandered the halls, trying to put his thoughts in order. He could try to postpone their return to Ylisstol, but he could not avoid it forever: as the halidom’s heir, he would have to face his people sooner or later. And that choice of timing would likely rest on his shoulders. The debate today had laid out their options, the benefits and shortcomings -- but as the prince of the nation under attack, his decision would steer their course. 

He didn’t want that responsibility. He’d _never_ wanted it. That burden threatened to crush him under its weight--

But it didn’t have to, did it? 

Robin might not be able to make the decision for him, but Chrom trusted his advice. And he knew the tactician would not judge him for faltering under such pressures. 

Finding his way back to his own room seemed easier this time. Perhaps he was starting to learn the stronghold’s layout. Moving a few doors further down, the prince knocked at Robin’s door. 

No answer. 

He waited a few moments before trying the handle. “Robin?” he called as the door opened. 

Again, no response. Moving into the room, Chrom found it empty: the bed looked as though no one had slept in it the night before, and the table beside it was bare of any personal items. He was sure he’d entered the right room…

As he turned back toward the door, it opened. Stepping behind its swing, the prince saw Robin trudge inside, letting the door close under its own weight behind him. 

He looked tired. From his place by the wall, Chrom watched as the tactician leaned against the foot of his bed, pressing one hand against his face and drawing a slow, shaky breath. The strain of the day had worn on them both, it seemed. Moving quietly across the room, the prince slipped his arms around Robin’s chest, settling close against his back.

The tactician stiffened, his movements short and sharp as daggers in the instant before a magic circle flashed into the air around them. 

“Robin!”

Chrom jerked back, reaching for his sword as the tactician whirled, lightning already crackling in the palm of his upraised hand--

“Chrom.”

Robin clutched the Thunder tome to his chest, his fingers curling into a fist as the spell faded around him. “Gods, I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was you--”

“ _Gods,_ what was _that!?_ ” the prince demanded. His grip remained tight on Falchion’s hilt as the tactician backed away, raking a hand through his pale hair.

“I thou…I thought you were someone else,” Robin mumbled, twisting one hand in the sleeve of his coat. 

“Who _exactly_ warrants that kind of greeting?” the prince snapped. The tactician shook his head, his back finally meeting the far wall--

Chrom could see him trembling. “…tell me,” the prince said, his tone softening as he relaxed his stance. 

Robin took a deep breath. “I thought a Grimleal had snuck into the fortress.”

Chrom stared. How was a Plegian going to get past the Longfort, let alone into the Feroxi stronghold? This was not a situation to make light of…

…but the tactician’s pale face made it clear that this was not a jest. “Really?”

“I didn’t say it was sensible,” Robin whispered. “Just that it’s what I thought.”

“Why would you think that?” Chrom asked. 

“You grabbed me.”

The prince could think of nothing to say. But he was certain those fears must have some source. It wasn’t like the tactician to strike first and question later. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Chrom patted the place beside him in silent invitation. Robin hesitated long enough that the prince wondered if he planned to come at all…before moving slowly across the room, setting his tome aside as he sat next to the captain.

“Do you want to talk?” Chrom asked as the silence between them stretched. The tactician’s hand tightened on his sleeve, his attention fixed on the floor as he drew a deep, shaky breath. 

As the prince reached out to touch his shoulder, Robin removed his glove and held up his right hand. “These are my Eyes,” he murmured. Aptly named, given the shape of the violet mark. 

“Lissa said something about that,” Chrom said, watching as the tactician settled his hands in his lap. “What are they?” And what did they have to do with Robin nearly blasting him with magic? 

“It’s the mark of the Grimleal,” the tactician explained. “Lore tells that before Naga and her followers attacked, Grima gave the Eyes to the first Grimleal as her blessing. They were smaller, then. Just one pair and the roots to ground them.” Chrom watched as the tactician traced the twisting lines with the tip of one finger before circling each set of eyes in turn, from the top to the base. “Each pair was believed to be a different gift. The first pair for a keen mind, the second for a strong body, and the third for a great heart. And the blessings were passed on to their children, fading as the bloodlines thinned or growing larger as they strengthened. The Grimleal gave them names, after a while. The original blessings were all three Eyes -- one pair and the roots. A pair without roots is two Eyes, two pairs with roots is five Eyes. So on and so on.”

While the lore was interesting, the prince sensed that they were dancing around the heart of the matter. Even still, he reached out, curling his hand over Robin’s. “Would that make yours seven?”

The tactician shook his head. “It’s said that three pairs cannot exist without roots. Like a tree -- it will fall unless it’s grounded. My mark is the six Eyes -- the Heart of Grima.”

“Heart of Grima?” the captain repeated. 

Robin’s free hand pressed against his face. “Legend has it that within the six Eyes beats the Heart of Grima, and though them the fell dragon may return.”

Chrom frowned. “I don’t understand--”

“Please don’t make me say it.”

The tactician’s hand shook under the prince’s fingers, and Chrom instinctively tightened his grip as a knot of unease twisted in the pit of his stomach. “Robin, what is this about?”

“Gods, Chrom--” 

It wasn’t just his hand trembling. The tactician’s whole body shivered, and his voice with it -- but as the prince moved to touch his shoulder, Robin shied away, burying his face in his hands. “I’m Grima’s vessel.”

Hearing those words from the tactician did not make them easier to bear.

Chrom’s hand settled on Falchion’s hilt. Robin did not move. “Why would you tell me that?”

“Because you needed to know,” the tactician breathed. “I never meant to get so close to you. The more I did…I know I should have told you sooner. But I was afraid.”

“…of what?” the prince pressed. 

“What you would say, if you found out. What you would do. When Lissa saw the mark, I thought my head would be on the chopping block as soon as we returned to Ylisstol. But she didn’t recognize it.”

Emmeryn had, though. She’d drawn it over dinner the night they marched for the border pass. Why hadn’t she warned them?

…maybe because she’d known Robin wasn’t a threat. 

“Why did you join the Shepherds?” Chrom asked. 

“To evade the Grimleal.”

“Why? If you’re Grima’s vessel, shouldn’t they worship you?”

The tactician’s laugh made him wince. “They don’t want to worship me. They want to make me into their monster. They don’t care how I come to them -- whole or broken, so long as they have me under their sway, they’d be satisfied.”

“…why do you think that?”

“Those rogues in Southtown said as much, when they cornered me.”

“You wouldn’t have been trapped if you’d run,” the captain said. “Why attack them?”

“I’m a craven, not a dastard,” the tactician chuckled, sifting his trembling fingers into his hair. “I thought it was my fault they were under siege. I couldn’t just abandon them to that fate.”

“…even if it sealed yours?”

“I’ve been running from it my whole life. I’d escaped before -- sometimes by hiding, sometimes by fighting -- but I knew it would catch up to me sooner or later. I’ve made my peace with that, and I swore to myself that death would take me before the Grimleal could. I was prepared to see that through.”

A leaden weight dropped to the pit of Chrom’s stomach. 

“…but you saved me,” Robin murmured, glancing briefly toward the prince before turning his gaze back to the floor. “And I owed you a debt for it. …but more than that -- it’s selfish, but I thought…the Ylissean militia would be the safest place for me. It’s difficult, taking one man through an army. They couldn’t drag me off without someone noticing. I didn’t…I had planned on keeping to myself, but I kept getting drawn into things, and…gods, it all became such a mess.”

He buried his face in his hands again, and Chrom finally eased his grip on Falchion’s hilt. No wonder Emmeryn had stayed silent. Robin was more a threat to himself than any of the Shepherds. Shifting closer, the prince slipped his arm around the tactician’s shoulders, tightening his grip as Robin flinched inward.

“What will you do with me now?”

“I’d like to ask your advice -- should we march straight into Plegia, or return to Ylisstol first?”

“This is serious!” the tactician snapped, lifting his head to meet Chrom’s eye -- and as he did, the prince cupped his cheek in his free hand. Robin’s face paled a shade further as the captain leaned close, resting his forehead against the tactician’s. 

“I know,” Chrom murmured. “I know you’re serious. But so am I. And what you just told me -- about that mark, and everything else -- that doesn’t make you a different person. My father’s brand didn’t make him a good man, and your Eyes don’t make you a bad one. You’re the Shepherds’ tactical genius. You’re someone I trust with my life. You’re someone I care about.” That brought a trace of color back to the tactician’s face. “You’re Robin. All that’s changed is that I have more reasons to keep you safe.”

Robin drew a breath that the prince suspected would become another protest. But Chrom saw nothing more to argue about. So he stifled the tactician’s words in a kiss, pulling him close and warm against his chest. 

It took a few moments for Robin to relax. But the trembling tension eased as he slipped his arms around the prince. 

As they broke apart, the tactician lowered his head. “You’re sure?” he whispered. “About…all of this?”

“Of course I am,” Chrom chuckled. “You don’t need to be afraid anymore. Of being captured, or imprisoned, or anything else. You’re safe here with us.”

Robin seemed unconvinced. But even still, he nodded, leaning his head against the captain’s shoulder. “…thank you.” And softer still, no louder than their breath, “I love you.”

The prince smiled, resting his cheek against the tactician’s hair. “And I love you.”

And to his own surprise, he found those words were true.

***

After spending the better part of a week locked in the war council, the khans called for a break from discussions. Not a long one, but any reprieve was welcome after days of debate. Robin was not an expert on war -- historic conflicts and the art of warfare, perhaps, but not the planning and preparation that went into a large-scale assault on a country. And while he likely _should_ take the time to read into such matters, the tactician felt drained and weary. He did not want to read about conquest and bloodshed. He wanted to read inconsequential fictions of unlikely friends and rivalry becoming camaraderie. He’d borrowed a book from Sumia before the Shepherds left to spread the exalt’s message around Ylisse, and he’d barely made a dent in it. He’d like to return it at some point.

So he made his way back to the reading room he and Chrom had found during their first visit to the Feroxi stronghold, curled up in the chair closest to the fire, and lost himself in the lives of other men. 

Or tried to. He’d read two pages and half of a third when the door behind him opened, and he instinctively reached for the tome in his coat. 

“Robin?”

“Chrom?”

Peering around the chair, the tactician saw the captain standing in the doorway. “Here you are. I tried your room but it was empty. I wouldn’t have known where else to look if you weren’t here.”

“I was just reading,” Robin said, closing the book on his finger to mark his place. “What’s going on?”

“I’m heading out on patrol.”

“What?” The tactician stared. “Captain, this is Ferox, let their guards handle--”

“Want to come with me?”

Robin closed his mouth. Logically, he knew, he should continue to press the fact that they had no business patrolling in foreign lands. But then again, a walk would probably do him some good after spending a week cooped up in the war room. Sully would start ribbing him about getting a gut if he didn’t at least _try_ to stay in shape. 

“Alright,” he agreed, rising from his seat and setting the book aside. “Does Frederick know what you’re doing?”

“Gods, no,” Chrom snorted. “He’d tell me I shouldn’t.”

Well, technically the great knight would be right. 

“Besides, he’s off reprimanding the Shepherds for neglecting their training,” the prince said.

“ _Have_ they been neglecting their training?” Robin asked as they left the reading room. With the stakes so high, that hardly seemed like something they would shirk…

“No, but there’s no such thing as _too much training_ in Frederick’s mind.”

“I’m surprised he hasn’t hunted us down, then,” the tactician chuckled. “We’re the ones who haven’t been doing _any_ training, after all…”

“Why do you think we’re going out on patrol?” The prince winked at him, darting around a corner and pulling Robin along behind. Navigating a few more winding halls and dodging around a few more corners, they found themselves outside the eastern entrance of the fortress; the Feroxi guard nodded gravely as they passed, but made no attempt to follow as they struck off into the woods.

Fresh snowflakes danced down from the pale grey sky as they moved through the trees. The tactician raised his hood, watching his breath billow out in soft clouds for the wind to swirl and disperse. Winter had truly taken hold now, the light powder of early autumn having given way to wet, heavy flakes that clung to everything they touched--

“Gods, it’s _freezing_ out here,” Chrom grumbled, rubbing his arms vigorously in an attempt to warm them. 

“Well, that’s what happens when you go out in winter without sleeves,” the tactician murmured wryly. It likely didn’t help that the captain had neglected to fetch his usual cape and pauldron before leaving the stronghold.

“It wasn’t this bad when we were here last,” the prince complained. 

“Well, it wasn’t _winter_ when we were here last. It was still autumn, technically. Now it’s early winter -- rest assured, it will get worse.”

“How did you _survive?_ ” 

“You adapt.” Robin shrugged, unhooking the brass clasp at his throat and slipping the coat from his shoulders. “Here.”

Chrom paused, his arms still wrapped tight around his chest in an attempt to keep warm. “What about you?”

“I still have sleeves,” the tactician replied, shoving the coat insistently toward the captain. “Take it before you freeze.”

The prince hesitated. But after another moment he relented, taking the garment and shrugging it on. “Thank you.”

Robin smiled softly, watching as the captain fastened the clasp and pulled the hood up over his head. It had always been a bit big on the tactician, but while it wasn’t a perfect fit on Chrom, it certainly seemed a closer match. 

“So this is what it’s like to be you,” the prince mused, pulling it closer around him. 

“More or less,” Robin chuckled as the captain pulled the Thunder tome from the coat’s inner pocket. Opening the book, the prince made a sweeping gesture, pointing at the nearest tree. Nothing happened -- but the tactician hadn’t expected it to. “Is that really what I look like?” he laughed. 

“Something like it,” Chrom chuckled. “So how does this work, anyway?” he asked, flipping through the pages. “It looks like a regular book to me.”

“Well, for the most part, it is,” Robin agreed. “They’re filled with history, lore, treatises on the nature of the elements…they’re literary pieces, as much as weapons. It’s not important to read the whole of them, but some understanding of how the magic works tends to help focus a mage when they draw on their power.”

“So…the book doesn’t do anything?” the prince translated. 

“Of course it does. It’s the conduit.” Chrom gave him a blank look. “How much do you know about magic?”

“Not a lot,” the captain confessed sheepishly, tugging the hood down over his eyes. “Some of our tutors tried to teach me, but it never stuck the way it did for Emm and Lissa. They were the ones with all the talent -- Emm patched up a lot of cuts and scrapes with that staff when we were kids…”

The tactician curled his fingers gently around Chrom’s. The prince smiled weakly as he returned Robin’s grip. “It’s alright. I’m alright. …it’s still hard. I don’t want to believe that she’s gone. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and think it was all a nightmare. That we’re in Ferox preparing for the tournament, and everything after was just a bad dream. …I miss her.”

The tactician leaned against Chrom’s shoulder, tilting his head against the raised hood. “It will get easier to bear. And you don’t need to shoulder the weight alone.”

“I know,” the prince murmured. “I want to remember her. I want to live up to her. I can’t forgive Gangrel, but…but I want to bring the peace she dreamed of to Ylisse. For her.”

“It’s a noble goal,” Robin agreed. “And if anyone can attain it, you can.”

“Flatterer.” But a faint note of levity cut through the sorrow in his voice. “So how does magic work, anyway?”

A distraction. The tactician recognized that tactic for avoiding troubles. He smiled, beginning to walk again as he marshalled his thoughts. Sleeves or not, the chill cut deep, and moving helped stave off the worst of it. “Magic is less about the tome -- or staff -- and more about a person’s innate abilities. Not everyone is born with an aptitude for magic, and not all those who are learn to harness it. Without a tome, though, even someone with magical ability can’t cast a spell. The spellbook is the channel that magic flows through to enter the world: a mage’s power resonates with the circle inscribed in the tome, calling it into being to unleash the elements. But just having a tome isn’t enough, either. You need to reach deep and draw on the power within while you recite the incantation.”

“Incantation, huh? Miriel and Ricken always chant, but I never hear you say a word when you call down thunder.”

“Oh, the incantation doesn’t need to be spoken aloud,” Robin replied. “Some scholars believe that the spell is stronger when spoken, but it’s also easier to interrupt and more likely to give away your position and intent. And I don’t notice any particular difference in how strong or weak my spells are, in that regard. Other factors seem more important.”

“Like what?”

“Well, the nature of the tome, for one. A more basic spell, like Thunder, is naturally weaker than a more advanced one, like Thoron. …but I think intent is key. If your intent is to disable, even a Thoron spell can be shaken off. If your intent is to kill…”

He shivered, fisting a hand in his sleeve. Chrom did not press the matter. No doubt he remembered the ruins just as well.

“Emotion can affect it, too,” the tactician continued. “Fear can make a spell more dangerous, if your intent is survival. But it can also make a spell weaker, if it clouds your intent and makes your heart uncertain.”

“What about happiness?” Chrom asked, pulling the hood down over his eyes. 

“…I don’t know,” Robin confessed. “I don’t think I’ve ever cast while I was particularly happy before.” He’d never had _reason_ to cast when he wasn’t in fear of his life. 

“Maybe you should try,” the prince chuckled, offering the tome to him. “I want to hear you say your incantation.”

“Then we’d best find a clear space so we don’t risk sparking off a fire,” the tactician said. They walked side by side, their shoulders barely touching, and the tactician felt a faint smile tug at his mouth. He couldn’t say that he was particularly happy, but he certainly felt more at ease -- and being around Chrom invariably made his heart falter. Would affection change anything? Or, more accurately, would the desire to impress make a difference? Miriel would likely want to study it in greater depth if she found out what they were doing, given her almost fanatical interest in understanding the intricacies of magic and nature…

“How about here?” Chrom asked as they pushed through a dense cluster of pines and into a small clearing. A large tree must have fallen and been dragged off at some point, judging by the deep hole in the ground now mostly filled with snow. “Is this clear enough?”

“It should suffice,” Robin agreed. Chrom leaned back among the green boughs of the nearest fir, watching closely as the tactician stepped forward. He did not bother opening the tome. He knew the spell by heart. The words flowed easily, rising with his cloudy breath as the circle materialized around him; gesturing toward the hole, a bright bolt leapt from his palm, arcing through the air and striking the snow. 

Aside from the gout of steam that billowed up, he certainly didn’t notice anything different about it -- but still, they both moved to examine the pit, curiosity at least briefly keeping his disappointment at bay.

Chrom whistled, lifting the edge of the hood. “That’s pretty impressive.”

Indeed. In spite of the lackluster spectacle from afar, up close he could see the frozen earth through a surprisingly wide channel melted through the snow. “I don’t know what it proves, but it’s certainly striking,” Robin agreed. 

A bitter gust of wind shook the icy trees around them, and Robin shivered as the cold bit through his soft shirt. Pulling the tome close against his chest did little to help, though that didn’t stop him from trying. 

“Are you cold now?” Chrom murmured, leaning close enough that his foggy breaths warmed the tactician’s cheek. 

His next tremor had nothing to do with the chill around them. “Yes,” he whispered. Smiling softly, the prince drew Robin close, wrapping the coat around them both as he touched a kiss to the tactician’s lips. 

He wondered if this would ever become familiar. This closeness, this touch, the warmth that clouded his mind and made his heart race. But as uncomfortable as it was…he enjoyed it. A part of him -- shy, but growing bolder -- even looked forward to it.

“Better?” Chrom chuckled. The tactician nodded, unable to muster words. Chill or not, he wouldn’t mind staying out here a while longer--

A shadow passed over them. 

Robin looked up as a pegasus soared above the clearing, making swift progress toward the fortress. The captain met his eye, just for an instant, before shrugging out of the tactician’s coat and hurrying from the clearing toward the Feroxi stronghold. But the cloak did nothing to warm the cold fear that had taken root in Robin’s chest as he followed in Chrom’s footsteps. 

A pair of guards rushed to meet them as they made their way back to the gates, escorting them straight to the council chambers where an unfamiliar pegasus knight sat shivering in front of the fire. She looked up as they entered, standing as she recognized the prince of Ylisse. “Prince Chrom! Oh, thank the gods you’re safe, sir, we’d all been praying you escaped before the capital fell--”

“What?”

Robin’s heart lodged in his throat. Gods, the fighting had been fierce when they retreated, but the Ylissean guard and the pegasus knights had been out in force -- what had happened --

The door behind them opened as the khans burst inside, with Frederick close behind. “What the _fuck_ is going on here?” Basilio demanded. 

“Please. From the beginning, young lady,” Frederick said, more gently but with no less urgency. 

The red-haired knight saluted. “Y-yes, sir! My name is Cordelia. I’ve been stationed at the Ylisse-Plegia border for the last two moons -- a fortnight past, we received word that the capital had been attacked and needed aid. Half of the pegasus knights left to help in Ylisstol, while the rest of us maintained our patrol at the border -- but before they returned, Gangrel himself led his might against us.”

“Gods damn,” Flavia muttered. “I knew he was mad, but I didn’t think Gangrel had the stones to just waltz into Ylisse.”

“The end was upon us when my knight-sisters begged me to fly and warn the exalt. …I should have stayed,” she whispered. I should have stayed -- gods, I can still hear the screams…”

“Peace, Cordelia.” Robin moved around the table, touching the pegasus knight’s trembling shoulder. “You did your duty. And you survived -- you’ve time enough to keep their legacy alive.”

“But I abandoned them!” she sobbed. “I’m weak! Their legacy deserves better…”

“Sometimes fleeing takes the most courage,” the tactician murmured, glancing back at Chrom. “Now please, calm yourself. What’s become of the capital?”

The pegasus knight drew a shaky breath, swiping a few stray locks of hair out of her face. “The capital…w-when I arrived there was no one in the streets, and Plegians on the castle grounds. I didn’t stay -- I came north to beg aid from Ferox, but I never expected to see you here, milord…”

“Well, that drives a pike into our plans,” the west khan muttered, rubbing his bald head. 

“The dastard’s not even trying to be subtle anymore,” Flavia growled. 

“It does seem an obvious trap,” Robin agreed. Gangrel’s very presence seemed more an attempt to goad action from the exalt’s line than an act of escalating warfare. 

“It’s clearly a provocation -- a hot brand to the buttocks!” Basilio snarled, pounding a fist on the table for emphasis. “We should consider our options carefully before jumping to any--” 

“We march back to Ylisse.”

Everyone turned as the prince spoke. Gone was the quiet consideration he’d demonstrated throughout the prior meetings. His voice left no room for question or argument.

“…well, that would be _one_ option, yes,” the west khan sighed. “But perhaps we’ve seen enough royal blood shed for one war already?” 

“I don’t care if it’s a trap,” Chrom replied. “Gangrel will not take the halidom without a fight -- if he thinks we’ll just stand cravenly by while he ruins _everything_ my sister worked for--”

“Peace, Chrom,” Flavia said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “No one’s suggesting we don’t _act._ We’re simply saying we should act _wisely._ We’ll need guts and wits in equal measure if we’re to reclaim a captured city.”

“The khans are right,” Robin murmured. “I’ll think of something, Chrom. I promise.”

The prince met his eye, defiance in the tense set of his shoulders…before relenting with a bow of his head. “Alright, Robin. I leave it to you to formulate our strategy.”

“Are you certain you’re up to the task?” the east khan asked, leaning against the table. “It won’t be easy. You’ll be holding the lives of Ylisse’s people in one hand and all of ours in the other.”

“A responsibility I do not take lightly,” Robin agreed gravely. “But I am equal to the challenge.”

Flavia watched him for a long moment, waiting for him to flinch or fail; he returned her gaze steadily, his hands still and his expression set in a habitual calm that betrayed none of his inner turmoil. 

If nothing else, it seemed to satisfy her. The east khan laughed, her applause ringing through the room. “You’ve got stones, at least. I like that!

“No hesitation, no mincing words…you’re either a genius or a fool,” the west khan grumbled. “I suppose we’ll find out once we march.”

As the khans rushed off to rally their troops, Robin gestured for Cordelia to sit at the table, sorting through the hundred-odd questions he needed answers to before they marched. He would find a strategy to see them all -- soldiers and citizens alike -- safely through the fight.

What choice did he have?

***

The Feroxi Guard rallied with surprising speed when the call to arms came down. As evening fell, wagons from the border arrived carrying soldiers to bolster their forces. Chrom watched them through the arrowslits as he walked the length of the council room, listening to Frederick discussing the plans of the city and palace grounds, Flavia and Basilio’s constant bickering, and Robin’s infrequent questions.

The tactician’s silence bothered him. He had seen the man size up a battlefield in a glance and relay orders in under a minute. Taking a city was a daunting effort, to be sure -- but he’d seen Robin turn odds to their favor in the past. If anyone could reclaim Ylisstol, he could. But the longer he went without speaking, the more the captain wondered if victory was unattainable…

But it was the tactician’s sigh that finally drew the prince from his restless pacing. “I’m afraid that any plans we make now will be tentative, at best. We don’t know their numbers, their positions, where the citizens are -- but it may be wise to engage in a pincer formation. From the northroad, send one force through the mountain pass to approach from the northeast, while the other continues south and approaches from the west. The lake north of Ylisstol and the bay to the east will make an eastern assault difficult, but it will certainly get their attention -- and with the forest to the west to cover their advance, we might be able to send scouts into the city unnoticed to get a better understanding of the situation and formulate a final strategy.”

“Any objections?” Chrom asked. 

“Ain’t bad to get us started,” Basilio grumbled. 

“You’re just sore because that boy kicked your champion’s ass,” Flavia snorted. 

“If we’re in agreement,” Frederick said, cutting over the start of another argument, “shall we relay the orders?”

“It’ll be my honor,” the east khan replied. “And then we feast.”

“Godsdamn, woman, now is not the time for a party!”

“When’s the next time we’ll have a chance to eat well, old man? Take it while the offer’s there -- unless _you’d_ rather hand them field rations tonight.”

“…just make sure the troops aren’t too drunk to set out tomorrow,” the west khan muttered. 

“Like that’s gonna happen,” Flavia scoffed. “Can’t have a feast without spirits -- you getting too old to hold your liquor?”

The rest of that conversation was lost as the khans left the room. Chrom hung back, watching as Robin rolled a hastily scrawled map of Ylisse and tucked it under his arm. He looked tired, as though the past few hours had exhausted his every reserve. But as the prince moved toward the tactician, Frederick stepped between them, leading Chrom out of the council room and off to assemble the Shepherds. 

By the time they arrived in the great hall, the tables were packed with Feroxi soldiers. While the rest of the Ylissean troops scattered to whatever open places they could find, Flavia beckoned the prince and princess up to the high table. As they mounted the dias to stand by the empty chairs that awaited, the khans rose, and silence fell over the assembly. 

Chrom heard the east khan begin to speak, but did not follow her words. The surge of rage that had spurred his choice drained as the Feroxi soldiers roared in response to Flavia’s speech. They were going back to Ylisse. For battle, yes, but once the city had been reclaimed…he would have to answer to the halidom’s people. 

Gods, he wasn’t prepared for this. 

As the khans raised their cups in a toast, everyone in the hall followed suit. Mirroring the Feroxis, the prince took a deep drink--

And fought not to choke as the liquor burned its way down his throat. Lissa did not manage to hide her surprise quite as well, but at least her muffled coughs were drowned out by the east khan’s next brief address before the hall set to feasting. 

Chrom would have deeply enjoyed drinking himself into a stupor. Anything to escape the dread lurking around the edges of his mind, dogging him more fiercely as he tried to turn his mind elsewhere. But while he’d come to tolerate the bitterness of Feroxi food, the stinging fire in every gulp made their spirits undrinkable. 

Though that didn’t stop him from trying. 

To his surprise, though, the feast did not last into the night. The soldiers began to file out within the hour; by the time he’d finished his first cup and started on his second, only a few stragglers remained -- most of them Ylisseans. As Flavia and Basilio both bade the prince and princess good night, Frederick approached the high table, looking worriedly at Lissa dozing off in the remnants of her stew. The drink had clearly done more for her than her brother. 

Lucky.

“Will you be alright, seeing yourself to your quarters?” Frederick asked, tapping the princess’ shoulder to rouse her (with little effect).

“I’ll be fine,” Chrom muttered, pushing his chair back from the table and moving to the edge of the dias--

He stumbled. Perhaps he’d bumped into the closest chair, or lost track of the uneven stones as he started down the steps. But whatever the case, the only thing that kept him from falling was Robin’s hand on his arm. 

“Careful,” the tactician murmured. 

“Gods, tomorrow is going to be a nightmare,” the great knight sighed. The prince looked back to see Frederick helping the half-asleep princess out of her chair. “Robin, will you see Lord Chrom to his room while I tend to Lady Lissa?”

“Of course,” the tactician agreed. Turning, he waited for Chrom to reach the bottom of the wide stairs before guiding them out of the great hall, his hand light on the captain’s elbow.

The silence made Chrom restless. The longer it stretched, the harder it became to ignore his most insistent thoughts. “You could have warned me about the liquor, you know.”

“I didn’t know that was still traditional before a march to battle,” Robin protested. “It’s not part of the khans’ challenge anymore because of the shift to the arena. It certainly took me by surprise.”

Chrom mustered a smile as they made their way through the familiar corridors. “Glad to know Lissa and I weren’t the only ones.”

As they reached the captain’s quarters, the tactician opened the door, gesturing inside. Chrom lingered in the doorway catching Robin’s questioning glance out of the corner of his eye. “Is something wrong?” the tactician asked. 

“…will you join me?”

They were the only words he could think to ask, and they made Robin’s face redden instantly. “I just want to talk,” Chrom chuckled. 

The tactician didn’t seem convinced. But he still nodded, following the captain inside and closing the door behind them. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Chrom patted the place beside him -- and this time, Robin did not hesitate in joining him. 

“So…what is it you want to talk about?” 

The prince sighed, falling back across the stiff mattress. “How long do you think it will take to free Ylisstol?”

“Gods only know,” the tactician sighed. “It depends on how large the occupying force is, and whether we’ll be forced to lay siege or not. If we can strike, we might be able to free the city within a fortnight. A siege could last months, depending on the food stores available in the capital -- and it will likely impact the citizens trapped within the city hardest.”

“…is there any chance we could rout the Plegians and force them back across the border?” Chrom asked.

“That depends on how entrenched they are in Ylisstol. I don’t know enough. There are too many variables, too many uncertainties and unknowns for me to make any guarantees. But even if we can rout them, we’d be wise to remain in the city to resupply before pursuing -- if we give chase too hastily, we might fall into a trap. And the people of Ylisstol will need reassurance after the recent turmoil.”

“…what should I tell them?”

He stared at the ceiling, trying to ignore the stare Robin turned on him. “You don’t want to go back.”

It was not a question. But not a judgment, either. Just a statement, tinged with surprise. 

“I don’t,” Chrom agreed. “I don’t know what to say to them. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to rule a nation -- and gods know, Emm didn’t when she took the throne at _ten,_ but I’m not her. She did a better job guiding the halidom as a _child_ than I think I could do now, as an adult.”

“You know you’ll have advisors to help--”

“Most of Emm’s advisors were relics from our father’s reign, and she opposed them at every step. The ones that are left after all this -- will I be able to stand against them?”

“I’m sure you will, if their advice is poor.”

“But how will I know if it is?” Chrom asked. “In the last council, before the Shepherds crossed Ylisse -- I sat there and I thought that they were _right._ And they were advocating another war with Plegia. Emm’s was the only voice for defense, and she didn’t give an inch. I don’t know if I could do that.”

Silence. The prince raked his hands through his hair, trying to ignore the unease rising in his chest--

“Would you consider war if your country was not threatened?”

“What? Of course not--”

“Then you have your answer.”

Chrom sat up, frowning at the tactician. “How is that even an answer?”

“You sided with her advisors because war was unavoidable. You believed Gangrel’s removal from power was the only way to achieve Emmeryn’s goal -- and as the Mad King, it’s highly doubtful that he’d step down willingly. It’s not a matter of seeking violence, it’s making the best of what you have and trying to make a lasting peace for your people.”

“But how can I face them, after I ran like a godsdamn craven?”

“Sometimes fleeing takes the most courage.”

He’d said that before, hadn’t he? To the pegasus knight. “I don’t…”

“It can be hard to retreat. Especially when it means you must forsake something important. Whether it’s a comrade or a country, no one wants to leave the things they care for behind. But retreat can mean survival -- and survival means you can return. You can save those left behind, or honor those lost. Even our retreat to Ferox allowed us to not only keep the Fire Emblem safe, but secure a force capable of freeing Ylisstol. They will understand. They’ll welcome your return.”

“What if they don’t?” Chrom asked. “What if they turn on me, the way they turned on Emm when she took the throne?”

“…you seem to labor under the impression that you’re not a good man,” Robin murmured. “Chrom, nothing could be further from the truth. You’re strong, you’re open-minded, and you want the best for everyone. Not just yourself or your family, but everyone around you. It will make you a good ruler. …and should you have need of advice, I’ll be there for you.”

The prince’s chest tightened at the tactician’s gentle smile. Slipping one arm around Robin’s waist, Chrom leaned in, kissing him deeply. A tremor shot through the tactician, his face heating as the captain pulled him closer. The warmth, the touch, swept his worries out of mind. Chrom’s free hand settled on Robin’s thigh--

“No.”

The tactician pushed him away, gently, shaking his head. “Chrom, you’re very drunk.”

Honestly, the prince was nowhere near as drunk as he wanted to be. 

Robin stood up and Chrom’s stomach knotted. “Wait,” he pleaded, catching the tactician’s sleeve. “Please stay.”

Robin looked back at him with that familiar, unreadable expression. The prince didn’t know what else to say to convince him. His heart pounded as he tried to think of something, _anything_ \--

“You really should rest,” the tactician said. 

“I don’t know if I can,” Chrom replied.

Robin sighed, running one hand through his pale hair. “Would my staying help or hurt the odds of you sleeping through the night?”

The prince didn’t need to think about that. “Help.”

The tactician gave him another silent stare. Gods, had he been too hasty? But as he drew another breath to speak, Robin sat down beside him, laying back across the mattress. Breathing a heavy sigh of relief, Chrom stretched out next to him, curling one arm across Robin’s chest and leaning his head against the tactician’s--

A sharp knock sounded at the door and Robin sprang off the bed, his hand darting to the Thunder tome the prince knew he hid within his coat. Sitting up and gesturing for the tactician to hold his fire, the captain raised his voice. “Who is it?”

“Just checking in, milord,” Frederick’s voice called back. “I wanted to be sure you arrived safely. May I come in?”

“No.” Robin still paled, in spite of Chrom’s near-instant reply. “I’d like to sleep.”

“Of course, milord,” the great knight said. “Preparations to embark will begin early tomorrow morning -- I’ll see to it that things proceed smoothly and rouse you before we depart. I imagine the khans will arrange for travel by wagon to the border, but--”

“Frederick. I would _really_ like to sleep.”

“Of course, milord. Please, rest well. I’ll rouse you for breakfast before we embark--”

“ _Frederick._ ”

“Yes, of course. Sleep well, milord.”

The prince waited until he could no longer hear the muffled clanking of the great knight’s armor before falling back across the bed. “Gods, sometimes it’s impossible to get through to that man. You can relax now,” he chuckled, shifting just enough to remove Falchion from his side and propping it against the table by the bed before wrapping himself in a thick fur. The tactician pulled his coat closer around him, glancing at the door as Chrom gestured to the space beside him. “He won’t come back.”

“How sure are you?” Robin asked. 

“Quite. He may be hard to shake, but once you get your point across, he tends to respect it.”

The tactician cast another uncertain look toward the door as he picked his way back to the bed, settling at the very edge for a long moment before stretching out beside the prince. Smiling to himself, Chrom curled his arm around Robin’s chest again, feeling the tactician’s faint tremors gradually still.

The sound of Robin’s breath, the faintly earthy scent of his hair, proved oddly soothing. “Will you try to sleep?” the prince mumbled. 

“I will,” the tactician promised. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Chrom chuckled. But his eyes would not stay open any longer -- and sleep followed close behind the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta reader has subtitled this chapter _Chrom Terrorizes His Boyfriend 2k16_ and I really can't deny how accurate that is. 
> 
> This chapter took a while in part because it wound up being almost 10k words again somehow? but somewhere in the middle I took a little art break and started doodling a few things. So have [a diagram of the Eyes](https://68.media.tumblr.com/f4308934447721381e45cbd87ef9d933/tumblr_ofboz82Rz81ug9zy3o5_1280.png), [a tactician doodle](https://68.media.tumblr.com/d8150200119db2c12b22d272f3bbed24/tumblr_ofblowtICL1ug9zy3o3_1280.png), [a Lissa doodle](https://68.media.tumblr.com/ab751d5a7079db9fbcc3a5f4cd58c8bc/tumblr_ofblowtICL1ug9zy3o1_1280.png), and [Robin's marked hand](https://68.media.tumblr.com/e6a853205906404b6d9bb8c1a45ce367/tumblr_ofboz82Rz81ug9zy3o1_400.png) because hands are literally my favorite things in the world to draw. 
> 
> Also, happy November! I've already logged 85k words into this story and I'm not about to switch gears now, but I'll be keeping a running log of the word count I've added over 85,000 as the month goes on -- hopefully it'll mean that the next chapter won't take too long. Again, thanks so much for reading this long and this far!


	11. Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Ylisstol occupied by Plegian forces and the gates closed to the Feroxi soldiers, the Shepherds struggle to find a way to free the city. And yet, just when the tides seem to be shifting in their favor, a sudden turn threatens to shatter the halidom...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: Violence, Blood, Death**  
> 
> 
>   
>  And we continue on through uncharted territory! Because of how this timeline differs from the main game, we get to meet someone a little early -- though it remains a very awkward encounter.
> 
> More perspective shifts this chapter. Dashes (-) still indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

They left the Feroxi fortress before the sun had even come up. Barely awake and still woozy from whatever she’d had the night before, Lissa managed to stumble to the wagons with the rest of the Shepherds before falling asleep against her brother’s shoulder. She woke up again around midmorning as they stopped at the Longfort -- but rather than getting out, they just waited for the gates to open before rolling right on through, bouncing along the Northroad until just before sunset.

She hadn’t realized how many people were coming with them. Instead of one or two fires, she counted at least two dozen scattered around the dry field where they set up their tents. She’d never seen so many soldiers at once before. Not camped out for battle, at least. 

It scared her a little. Traveling with the Shepherds, everything had seemed to small. Fights with bands of rogues, little groups of bandits, or even Plegian troops…the scale of this force was hard for her to grasp. How could they get all these people to follow the same battle plan? How could they keep them all safe? How could they heal them all, when the fighting started in earnest?

That thought scared her a lot. 

They set out again at the break of day, stopping at a fork in the road before splitting up. Half the wagons headed east toward the mountain pass while the rest continued south to the edge of Ylisstol’s western forest, stopping at sundown to make camp again. They made a lot more progress in a lot less time when horses did all the work. It usually took them a week to make this trek.

But that short journey meant that they’d be fighting a lot sooner. That realization left a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, which made falling asleep a lot harder. And even when she did manage it, she woke up halfway through the night in a cold sweat, shaken by a bad dream she couldn’t quite remember. 

She really hoped it wouldn’t be like this for long. 

Maybe a drink would help. A glass of water had always helped her get settled before, growing up in the palace. Back when things were calm, and they were all happy. It seemed like such a long time ago.

Slipping out of her tent, the princess crept across the camp to the banked cookfires where the water barrels were kept. Snatching up the nearest ladle, she dipped it into one of the casks and took a sip--

“What are you doing up?”

Lissa yelped, her borrowed utensil flying off into the dark as she flung her hands up in surprise. Robin watched it go, looking almost amused. “What are _you_ doing up?” she shot back. 

“I’m on the first watch,” the tactician replied. “When I saw someone sneaking around I came to investigate.”

“I was thirsty,” the princess mumbled. 

A faint smile twitched across Robin’s face as he moved to fetch her dipper, brushing it off with the edge of his sleeve. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s alright.” It was her own fault, really: she probably should have expected that someone would be up keeping an eye out…

“…hey, didn’t you take first watch last night, too?” she asked, scooping up another ladleful of water.

“…yes,” he admitted.

Lissa narrowed her eyes at him. “You need to get some sleep.”

“I’m on watch,” he protested. 

“I thought watch duty was supposed to rotate so everybody got rest.”

“It does, every few hours--”

“No, I mean if you’re on watch one night you shouldn’t be doing it again for a few days.”

“…oh.”

“ _Oh?”_ She gawped as he ruffled his hair sheepishly. “What kind of response is _‘oh’_? You should be saying, ‘I’ll go to bed right now’!”

“I’m still on watch right now--”

“But you shouldn’t be!”

“But since I am, I at least have to see my shift through,” he insisted. “It’s not fair for me to wake someone up early like that.”

The princess frowned, setting her ladle down and crossing her arms. “I could order you to go to bed, you know.”

“I imagine you could,” Robin agreed. “But I still feel that my duty to our camp’s safety must come first.”

“…fine.”

The tactician bowed his head slightly, turning and walking back to the nearest campfire. She watched as he put another log on the embers to keep its light burning -- and as he sat down on the ground, she took a seat next to him, wrapping her arms around one of his. 

He looked down at her in surprise. “What--”

“If you’re not gonna go to bed, then I’ll just have to stay up with you.”

“You look ready to fall asleep now,” he pointed out.

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to go to bed, then.”

Silence. Part of her felt proud for stumping him. Mostly she just felt tired. She really would have liked to go back to her tent and curl up for the rest of the night. But she was determined to get Robin to sleep. Maybe it was just the angle, or shadows from the fire, but he looked exhausted to her. 

He didn’t budge. So much for her brilliant plan. But she wasn’t about to give up. She could wait him out. He had to give in sooner or later, and when he did she could go curl up and closer her eyes and snuggle into her warm blankets and…

…when she opened her eyes the fire had burned back down to embers. Gods, had she fallen asleep? She’d just been resting her eyes for a second…

As she tilted her head, the princess felt warm, heavy fabric shift on her shoulders. Glancing over, she saw Robin’s coat draped around her. How he’d managed to get out of it when she still had his arm trapped (she checked quickly, and sure enough, the arm she held was still in its sleeve) was a mystery to her. Glancing up at him, she tried to decide whether she should thank him or yell at him for not going to bed yet…

…and stopped as she realized that he was sleeping with his chin on his chest. Somehow he looked more anxious asleep than he did awake. Was that what he looked like when his mask slipped? 

Footsteps crunched in the dry leaf litter as someone approached through the dark. In an instant the tactician’s eyes were open, his expression alert as he reached for the half of his coat he was still wearing. He didn’t exactly relax when Raimi came close enough to see, but his hand settled back into his lap. 

“I’ll take it from here,” the Feroxi general said. “Turn in. Tomorrow the fighting begins.”

Robin nodded, glancing down at Lissa before pushing himself upright and helping her along with him. “What did she mean by that?” the princess asked as they headed towards the tents. 

“At the pace we’re going, we’ll reach Ylisstol by tomorrow,” the tactician murmured back. “Which means we’ll likely meet some kind of armed resistance from the Plegians occupying the city.”

“…oh.” 

He smiled down at her, patting her hands as they clung tight to his sleeve. “Let me worry about that,” he said. “You just need to rest. Alright?”

“…alright,” she mumbled. “You’ll get some sleep, too?”

“I’ll go as soon as you do,” he promised. 

“...thanks, Robin.” Hugging his arm one last time, the princess broke away toward her own tent, listening to the tactician’s steps fade as he continued on. Wrapping herself up in her blankets again, the princess closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come. 

But in spite of Robin's reassurance, it did not return quickly.

***

They arrived outside the halidom’s capital early in the afternoon. The city gates were closed, and archers lurked along the high walls, firing warning shots as the soldiers made camp just out of range. The Feroxis didn’t seem to care a whit, going about their business without appearing to pay the Plegians more than a passing glance.

But they were watching closely. Robin had no doubt about that. The whole of their force seemed comprised of seasoned warriors who’d continued in the guard after their draft expired. When the fighting started in earnest, they would be well-prepared. 

As he made his way through the busy camp, Flavia fell into step beside him. “You ready for what’s coming?”

“Not particularly,” he muttered. “But I’ll meet the challenge when it comes.”

“Good answer,” the east khan chuckled. “Come on, we’ve got plans to make.”

He’d expected as much. 

Chrom and Frederick were already waiting when they arrived at the central pavilion, looking over a few maps of the halidom. Robin removed the folded map of Ylisstol from his pocket, smoothing it out on the surface of the light table. 

“So what’s your plan?” Flavia asked. 

He had no idea. 

Alright, calm down. “For now we need to wait. Keep watch on the city, wait for Basilio’s force to arrive. If we’re lucky, that will cause enough disarray among the Plegian occupiers for a small scouting party to slip through.”

“And how do you propose they do that?” Frederick asked. “The gates are closed, and if the palace is overrun, entering through the gardens would be a disaster.”

“There’s a breach in the wall,” Chrom said, tracing along the map of the wall to a point between the western and southern roads. “Sully and I used it to sneak out of the city when we were younger.”

Perfect. “If we can slip through there, we can explore and get a better understanding of what’s going on, where the enemy forces are concentrated, and how best to drive them out. We’ll need to stay out of sight as much as possible, so a group familiar with the city would put us at the greatest advantage. Suggestions?”

“I’ll go,” the captain said. “And I’ll wager Sully won’t let us go without her.”

“I’ll join you,” Frederick added. “I believe Stahl has family in the city, as well. His father and brother have a shop in the market quarter. He may be able to help us navigate.”

“I’d recommend taking Lissa and Gaius along, as well,” Robin said. 

“That seems rather risky,” the great knight warned. 

“Not as risky as going in without a cleric,” the tactician replied. “If something goes wrong, she may be the difference between success and failure. And Gaius’ skillset may come in handy for scouting and evasion.”

“And you?” Chrom asked. 

Robin glanced up at the prince. “What would you have me do?”

“It would be safest if you remained here,” Frederick said. “In case the Plegians choose to strike while we’re in the city, you can rally the response. 

“I’d feel better having you with the scouting party,” the prince countered. “It’ll make planning easier when we get the information we need.”

“…getting word to you inside would be more difficult than spreading a message to camped forces outside,” the tactician admitted. 

“And what do you take us Feroxis for, green rubes who can’t hold their own?” Flavia snorted. “We don’t need to have our hands held through a fight. We’ll be fine without you.”

“That’s settled, then,” the captain said. “When do you think Basilio’s troops will be in position?”

“Who the fuck knows,” the east khan muttered. 

“The weather has been fair,” Frederick pointed out. “The pass should not prove difficult to navigate. We might expect him in the next day.”

“We can at least put the Shepherds on alert, so everyone is ready,” Robin added. “I’ll inform Gaius.”

“I’ll tell Lissa,” Chrom said. 

“I’ll seek out Sully and Stahl,” Frederick offered. 

“And I’ll tell Raimi to have our forces keeping watch on the Plegians,” Flavia finished. “Good. Glad that’s all settled. Now let’s get going! That oaf had better get here soon, I’m just itching for a good fight…”

Well, Robin hoped she wouldn’t get it any time soon. 

Gaius was not a difficult man to find, much to the tactician’s surprise. He found the thief lurking around the cook fires, watching the Feroxis at work preparing supper. 

As he tapped Gaius’ shoulder, the thief jumped, holding his hands up. “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’!”

“Have they started making pies yet?” Robin asked. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gaius replied, looking affronted. 

“I take it they’re still too hot to sneak off with, then.”

“Hey, you insinuating something, Bubbles?”

“Bubbles?” No, don’t get distracted. “I didn’t mean to imply anything untoward. Do you have a few moments?”

“…guess so,” the thief grumbled, casting a glance over his shoulder. 

As they moved further from the bustle of camp, the sounds of conversation were replaced by the faint chirping of a few birds. The wind rustled the leaves at their feet as they stopped, well away from any prying eyes or ears -- not that he expected such trouble, but old habits were hard to break. “We’d like you to come with us when we infiltrate the capital.”

“…this an order from Blue?” Gaius asked. 

“Yes?” At least, he assumed Blue meant Chrom--

“Tell him he needs to pay up first.”

“…pay…up?” 

“Our deal,” the thief huffed. “He promised me candy and I haven’t seen a speck of sugar since we left Ylisse. Not counting what I’ve got on me.”

“…I’ll look into that,” Robin promised. “But the fact remains. We could use your help.”

“…eh, guess it couldn’t hurt,” Gaius sighed. “I’ll just add it to my bill of services. …that everything you wanted to talk about?”

“No. I have a personal request for you, as well.”

The thief’s eyebrows went up as the tactician dug through his pockets, removing a small parcel tied with twine. “What kinda request?”

“I need you to keep an eye on the soldiers.”

Gaius frowned deeply. “You mean you want me to spy on them.”

“Not exactly. I don’t want you to go riffling through their belongings or sneaking after them when they go off to bathe. I just need another pair of eyes observing, for everyone’s safety.”

“…okay, Bubbles, you lost me. How does spying keep people safe?”

Robin mustered a weak smile. “This conflict will not end with Ylisstol. If we’re victorious here, we’ll be marching to Plegia next. We’ll be at much greater risk, and as far removed as we’ll be from Ferox and Ylisse both, every soldier we lose will diminish our chances of victory. If someone is injured and tries to hide it, they’re more likely to fall in combat. If someone goes without rest into battle, they’re more likely to be injured or killed outright. When it was just the Shepherds, it was simpler,” he sighed. “We were a small band. I had a chance to at least pass by everyone on a daily basis, and see for myself how they fared after an engagement. With the Feroxi forces bolstering our numbers, there’s no possible way that I can check on everyone. No one man could. So I need another pair of eyes to watch with me, and make sure that the injured are tended, the tired given rest, and our chances of survival remain high.”

“Why pick me, then?”

“You’re a thief,” the tactician shrugged. “Your very profession demands that you take care and pay attention, or else risk failure. My only request is that you report anything odd you see to me, so that I can make the best strategic decisions possible.”

Gaius tapped his foot in the fallen leaves. “Guess that makes as much sense as anything. But it’s gonna cost you.”

“I imagined as much.” Untying the strings of the parcel, Robin folded back the bark and leather bindings to reveal few short stacks of round cookies. 

“What are those?” the thief asked, leaning closer as the tactician held one out to him. 

“Feroxi molasses cookies,” Robin replied. Gaius snatched it out of his hand, sniffing it carefully before taking a bite. “The Feroxis are known for their bitter food and love of pine, but they take great pride in these treats. There are annual contests between bakers from east and west Ferox to see who can bake the best cookie. These happen to come from my favorite bakery in east Ferox -- they’re yours as a down payment, if you agree to my request.”

The thief tried to say something with his mouth full. The tactician waited as he chewed hastily, swallowed, and held his hand out. “Done deal.”

“Ah ah, a few conditions.” Gaius’ eyes narrowed, though he did not lower his hand immediately. “I’ll pay based on the quality of information provided, not the quantity. I won’t pay to know what someone is eating, but I will pay to know if they’ve stopped eating entirely, since it raises troubling questions. If I can’t secure sufficient quantity of sweets, I’ll offer my own dessert as a stand-in and keep a log of what I owe in addition. You’re welcome to call off the arrangement at any time, but I will repay any outstanding debts at the first available opportunity. Does that sound fair to you?”

“…damn, Bubbles. You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

“As the grave.”

“Funny,” Gaius grinned. “You got yourself a deal, then,” he replied.

“Thank you,” Robin murmured, placing the parcel in the thief’s palm. Gaius considered it for a moment before tucking it under his arm and offering his hand again. 

“Dunno ‘bout traditions where you come from, but where _I_ come from, you shake hands after you strike a deal,” the thief explained. The tactician smiled, reaching out to grasp the thief’s outstretched hand. “Good doin’ business with you, Bubbles. I’ll check in when I’ve got something for you.”

“I look forward to it,” Robin replied. As the thief offered a flippant salute and started back toward the camp, the tactician’s smile faded. That, at least, was one less worry to mull over. 

If only the rest could be so easily solved. 

***

Basilio’s force arrived with the next sunset. As soon as the archers on Ylisstol’s walls began to scatter, the Feroxi camp sprang into action, taking up arms and making every appearance of preparing to charge the gate. That sent the Plegians into an even greater panic as they tried to figure out which side of the city was most in need of protection. 

It was a clever ruse. It bought their scouting party time to slip inside while the enemy tried to organize their defense on all the wrong fronts -- though the long evening shadows helped, too. On foot, the Shepherds made their way through the bare woods along the southern edge of the city, watching the archers running along the parapets to prepare their defenses. 

And once the wall was clear, the Ylisseans hurried through the dense overgrowth at its base, shoving through the branches and brambles until Sully found their old escape route. One by one they slipped through the gap in the stones and into the capital, ready to face whatever Plegian force might be waiting for them. 

But the streets around them were still. Not silent, but certainly quieter than Chrom could ever remember them being. “Where is everyone?”

“In their homes, I pray,” Frederick replied. “Gods only know what’s gone on in our absence.”

“Well, we can find out,” Sully said. “Your folks live somewhere around here, right, Stahl?”

“Well, not _here,_ ” the cavalier replied. “But in the city. I can take you -- I’ve been worried about them, since we left. I hope they’re still doing alright…”

“Quit hopin’ and start movin’, then,” she replied, patting one of her fellow knight’s pauldrons. Stahl smiled, leading the way to the nearest road and starting up toward the high street--

“You might wanna think about keeping to the alleys.”

The prince glanced back at Gaius, still hanging back with Robin on the narrow side road. “The high street is the fastest way to any point in the city,” Frederick protested. 

“Yeah, and what better place to put guards than the road _everybody takes,_ ” the thief grumbled. “First rule of the trade: you wanna stay out of the dungeons? Then use the godsdamn alleys.”

“He has a point,” Chrom admitted. “Can you find your way off the main roads?”

“It won’t be fast, but it shouldn’t be a problem,” the cavalier admitted. Turning down a narrow side street, Stahl led them along a winding path, darting between buildings and behind houses as heavy steps rushed down the cobbled streets beyond. 

Chrom’s nerves were drawn taut by the time they finally stopped outside a small apothecary shop. They waited as the cavalier tapped on a small side door, hands hovering over their weapons, their attention fixed on the high street just beyond…

The door opened. 

The Shepherds turned in unison as a man in an apron greeted them, a pestle in one hand and a knife in the other. He bore a little resemblance to Stahl, aside from his mussed olive hair -- and yet, looking at them side by side, there could be no doubt that they were brothers. 

“Oh, thank the gods, you’re safe,” the man sobbed, pulling the cavalier into a tight embrace. “We’ve been worried sick with everything that’s been happening, and there was no word--”

“We? Father’s alright?”

“He’s had some trouble with these damn Plegians, but he’s doing well enough -- nothing a homebrewed vulnerary can’t fix.”

“Well, that’s at least one bit of good news,” the prince sighed. 

Stahl’s brother looked up, seeming to realize for the first time that they weren’t alone. “P-Prince Chrom! Gods, forgive my rudeness -- it’s an honor, sir, please come in--”

“Hey, what’s going on there!?”

The Shepherds whirled, drawing their weapons as a band of armed men stalked toward them. So much for avoiding a fight--

“Follow me.”

“What?”

The captain glanced over his shoulder as Stahl’s brother hurried down the street, away from the approaching troop and down yet another alleyway. No time to argue. “Let’s go!” he shouted, racing after the man in just enough time to see him turn down another side street. 

If the route they’d taken before was winding, the path Stahl’s brother led them on was nothing short of twisting. Chrom lost all track of where they were as they turned at the corner of every building, following a maze-like course that defied comprehension. But if nothing else, it seemed to throw their pursuers. 

“Where are we going?” Stahl asked as his brother finally paused, glancing around the edge of the nearest house. 

“Right here. Hurry, while the road is clear.”

As the Shepherds moved out of the alley, the prince finally recognized where they were. With the buildings so close and the sky already dark, he hadn’t noticed the church spires rising above them. As they approached, though, his heart sank. The stained glass windows had been shattered and boarded over, the white stone walls smeared with dark bloodstains. Even the door was scarred with deep gouges, as though someone -- or more likely _many_ someones -- had attempted to chop their way inside. 

And yet, when Stahl’s brother knocked, a small window opened immediately. “Who goes?”

“Friends,” the apothecary replied. “I’ve brought the Shepherds -- and Prince Chrom, among them.”

“Prince Chrom?”

As Stahl’s brother stepped aside, the captain moved to take his place. He did not need to speak: the door opened without hesitation, and a fair-haired woman in clergy robes ushered them all inside.

The prince’s heart sank at the sight beyond. The long pews that once faced the alabaster statue of Naga had been moved to act as makeshift beds for injured Ylisseans -- and every one was full to capacity, leaving those with lesser wounds to rest on the stone floor while the priests and clerics moved along the rows tending to their patients. “Gods, what is all this?”

“This is a sanctuary.”

The clergywoman moved carefully through the crowded church, gesturing for the silent Shepherds to follow. A murmur rose from the citizens as they passed, filling the great space like the tolling of a bell. Chrom’s heart twisted at the hope in that sound. All the hell these people had endured, and yet they took comfort in his return. 

He could not fail them again. 

“Who are you?” the prince asked. 

“My name is Libra,” she replied, guiding them through a small door behind the altar and into a library littered with scrolls and tomes. “And I speak for all of us -- my brothers and sisters among the clergy, the citizens of Ylisstol, and I’m certain all of Ylisse -- when I thank the gods for your return. We had begun to lose hope when the heirarch said you had disappeared. Tell me, is Her Grace the Exalt among you?” 

The prince looked down at the floor, his chest tightening at the memory. 

“…I beg your forgiveness, Prince Chrom,” Libra said. “May the gods bless her with peace in the next life.”

“Thank you,” the captain murmured. “Please, can you tell us what’s going on? What’s this about the heirarch?”

“You’ve not heard?”

“Heard what?” the captain asked. “We’ve been in Ferox mounting a force to reclaim the city. We have no idea what’s gone on behind Ylisstol’s walls since we left.”

“It’s been…it’s been a difficult fortnight,” the clergywoman sighed, sitting at a table among the crowded bookshelves. “There was widespread confusion after the attack on the palace. The pegasus knights called for reinforcements from the border, and together with the Ylissean Guard they attempted to drive the enemy out of the castle. But they had already sustained heavy losses, and with the enemy entrenched in the palace, the remnants of the guard were forced to retreat. They took refuge here at the church, weathering the Plegian attacks with the aid of the clergy -- by the time the fighting finally died down, the people were too frightened to leave their homes, no one knew what was going on -- and then Gangrel brought his army into the city.”

“Is he still here?” Chrom asked.

Libra shook her head. “No. He and most of the Plegian troops left a mere day after arriving. As they departed, the heirarch came forward and announced that in the absence of the exalt, the prince, and the princess, he as regent had secured a peace treaty with the Plegians and that, as a show of good faith, they were leaving a force of their own guardsmen to keep us safe.”

“What a load of crap,” Sully grumbled. 

“Indeed,” the clergywoman agreed. “And we are not the only ones who thought so. The most vocal citizens were silenced with violence and dragged to the castle dungeons. Anyone seen as ‘disturbing the peace’ was punished with a public lashing, as a message to the rest of the city. Some of them were able to escape here -- the Plegian guard demanded that we give up the criminals hiding among our flock, but the church does not bow to any but Naga’s own line. They have attempted to force their way in, but the clergy have weathered every assault. And then a few days ago, the heirarch declared a curfew and closed the gates.”

“That must be when we got here with the Feroxis,” Lissa said. 

“Forgive my ignorance, but who is the heirarch?” Robin asked. 

“He’s been a friend of House Ylisse for many years,” the prince explained. “He guided Emmeryn during the early years of her rule. As an advisor, he tended to be more moderate than the rest of our father’s relics.”

“I see,” the tactician murmured. 

“…what are you thinking?” the captain pressed. 

“Given his history with the royal family, it makes sense that the Plegians would place him in an apparent position of power -- it at least presents an image of peace and goodwill to keep the citizens more at ease. I doubt that the ‘treaty’ they arranged was more than a list of Plegian demands. Likely the heirarch is a puppet ruler, acting as a mouthpiece for Gangrel and forced to serve the Mad King’s interests -- hence the violent suppression of dissent.”

“So he’s as much a victim as the rest of them?” Chrom translated. 

“That would be my guess,” Robin sighed. “Tell me, Libra, do you have any sense of how many Plegians remained in the city after Gangrel retreated?”

“Several hundred,” the clergywoman replied. 

“What sort? We’ve seen the archers on the high walls, and I think we were chased here by barbarians -- or fighters, it was difficult to tell in the dark…”

“Barbarians. Thieves have been skulking about, as well, and a few citizens who came for prayer service reported that wyverns have been seen flying over the palace.”

“Gods, just what we need,” the tactician grumbled, pulling out his folded map of Ylisstol and spreading it out across the table. 

“Do you carry that everywhere?” Chrom asked. 

“This is a war, Captain, going _anywhere_ without a map is a fool’s errand,” Robin replied. “Do you know anything more about the Plegian forces’ locations, patrol routes, garrisons…?”

“The changing of the guard comes at sunrise, midday, sunset, and midnight,” Libra replied. “The patrols keep mostly to the high streets dividing the city quarters, and the main roads branching from there.”

“Likely they’re using the Shepherds’ garrison as their barracks,” Frederick muttered. 

The tactician made a soft, thoughtful sound. That, at least, gave Chrom heart. “We’ll free Ylisstol from Gangrel’s grip,” Chrom swore. 

“Pray, sire, let my axe serve you and your party,” Libra said, rising from her chair. “If any of the clergy might help to drive this scourge from Ylisse, we will gladly lay down our lives for the cause.”

The prince smiled, laying a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “It would be my honor to be joined by such a dedicated woman of the cloth.”

“…man, sire. Man of the cloth.”

“You’re a--” Chrom bit his tongue. Gods, this was embarrassing. “…you’re not a woman?”

“No, sire,” Libra agreed patiently. “Women are clerics. I am a priest. Well, technically, a war monk, if you care to split hairs.”

“Oh. Yes, well, I’m...” An uneasy silence settled over the gathering. “Well, this is rather awkward.”

“Oh, it’s alright, sire,” the war…monk chuckled. “You realized your mistake quickly enough. It could have become much more awkward. … _much_ more--”

“Right! Let’s stop there,” Chrom insisted.

“How many of you are there?” Robin asked. The prince shot him a grateful look that the tactician did not see, occupied as he was with his map. “Clerics, priests, war monks.”

“Two dozen, perhaps?” Libra replied. “Why do you ask?”

“You said their guard is mobilized to deal with dissenters?”

“You don’t intend to put the good citizens of Ylisstol at risk, do you?” the priest asked gravely. 

“Gods, no,” Robin replied. “Simply considering -- if we can draw the guards’ attention inside, and divide them into small troops scattered throughout the city, it should give us an opportunity to open the eastern and western gates for the Feroxi forces, and make the task of defeating the Plegians significantly easier. Once the bulk of the guard has been dispatched, we can regroup with the rest of the Shepherds and the Feroxis to take the castle.”

“A daring plan,” Frederick remarked. “But how will we divert the guard?”

“If the clergy are willing to assist us, we could potentially scatter eight groups to different locations in the city -- two war monks or clerics for protection, along with a priest or cleric for healing. If they can retreat to the narrower side streets, it will force the Plegians to meet them one on one, rather than overwhelming them.”

“Will that be enough to get their attention?” Chrom asked. 

“If they feel one person speaking out is a threat, three will likely be more than enough. Greater numbers would be preferable, but we don’t have the resources--”

“We’ll help.”

The Shepherds looked up as Stahl’s brother rose from the table. “I know plenty of folk around here who’d be glad to lend a hand and don’t mind a little risk if it’ll get these damn Plegians out of our city.”

“You can’t!” Stahl protested. “This is dangerous--”

“Says the man risking his life as a Shepherd,” his brother chuckled. “You’ve been laying your life on the line for us. Least we can do is help you out where we can.”

Chrom wished he had the words to give full weight to his gratitude. “Thank you. All of you. We will take Ylisstol back -- we will see these fiends driven from our lands, I swear it!”

“We’ll need some time to plan our next move,” Robin murmured. “We can’t afford to rush into anything. I’ll coordinate with the khans as we devise our strategy -- would it be alright if we peruse your library?”

“Of course -- the Church of Naga is yours to use as you see fit,” Libra replied, bowing his head. “If you have need of anything, only speak it and we will see it done.” 

“Thank you, Libra. For everything,” the prince said. Things were not as desperate as he’d feared. Hope remained in the city -- and he would see it rewarded.

***

The response Stahl’s brother raised from the citizens exceeded even Robin’s most optimistic expectations. It simultaneously improved their chances of success and made planning their coup increasingly difficult.

But he much preferred an excess of aid to a dearth of it. 

Between the information from Ylisstol’s people and Gaius’ forays through the city, their strategy came together. Sneaking the information out to the Feroxis proved to be the last obstacle -- but a pair of archers from the remnants of Ylisse’s guard stepped up to volunteer for the mission. Chrom refused to allow it until Lissa ensured they had recovered from the fall of Ylisstol Castle; with her approval, though, the women slipped out of the city with the setting sun, returning at dawn with word from the khans.

No objections. They would rally and make ready to advance on the Shepherds’ signal. 

The plan went into motion with the next fall of twilight. Citizens rallied throughout the city, drawing the exhausted Plegian guard into action while reinforcements scrambled to mobilize -- and as they appeared, the people scattered, disappearing down narrow alleys and into the waiting homes of supporters while the armed clergy that lay in wait began to thin the opposition. 

Listening from the Shepherds’ hiding place by the western entrance, the tactician heard the word ‘riot’ shouted from atop the wall as the archers scattered from their posts to assist the failing guard. And with their retreat, the Ylisseans took action: while Lissa kept watch, Frederick, Chrom, and Robin struggled to raise the bar securing the gate before forcing the doors open for the waiting Feroxi soldiers. 

Flavia grinned as she sauntered into the city, her sword resting on her red and silver pauldron. “Damn if I didn’t think you’d lost your mind when I read that message, boy. But you pulled through again.”

“Always an honor to serve, Khan Flavia,” the tactician murmured, bowing his head as she patted his shoulder. 

She grinned, but wasted no more time mincing words: Feroxi soldiers rushed in behind her, heavily armored knights swarming up the stairs to the top of the great wall and fanning out to tend to the remaining archers while the rest spread out through the city to assist the clergy. 

With Flavia, Raimi, and the Shepherds who had remained in the Feroxi camp bolstering their numbers, Chrom led them down the western road to the city center. They were not left waiting long: within moments, Sully, Stahl, Gaius, and Libra led Basilio and his men down the eastern road to join them. 

“Gotta hand it to you, boy,” the west khan chuckled, nearly staggering Robin with a pat on the back, “when I got that message I’d have sworn you were nothing but a lackwit. You sure proved me wrong!”

“Khan Flavia said much the same,” the tactician muttered. 

“Good to see you survived the trip, old man,” Flavia chuckled. 

“Good to see you didn’t get lost on the way, upstart,” Basilio countered. 

Robin so enjoyed Feroxi banter. 

“Are we ready?” Chrom asked. 

A roar of approval went up from the troops around him, loud enough to leave the tactician’s ears ringing. Not that he needed to hear to understand the next order: the prince raised his sword, pointing down the high street leading to the palace. Charging forward, the soldiers stormed the castle grounds, engaging with the guardsmen from the garrison; in the confusion, the Shepherds heaved the palace doors open and rushed down the long corridor leading to the throne room. 

So far, so good. All they needed to do now was rescue the heirarch. Once the Plegians lost their hostage and the rest of the Feroxi troops and clergy members congregated at the castle, their chances improved significantly. 

The ornate hall looked much like Robin remembered from his first brief meeting with Emmeryn. But torchlight filled the room now, glowing across the pale stones as the Shepherds advanced, and an elderly man sat in the place of Chrom’s sister, the deep lines in his face curving into a smile as the prince and princess approached. 

“Heirarch! Thank the gods you’re alright -- please, come with us,” the captain insisted, reaching a hand out to help the man up from his seat. 

“Oh, it’s so good to see you again, Chrom, Lissa dear,” the heirarch chuckled, struggling to his feet with the help of his cane. “Here I’d been starting to think you wouldn’t return to Ylisstol at all.”

“We would never abandon the city,” the prince insisted. “We’ve brought aid from Ferox -- you’re safe now.”

“I’ve never been safer,” the elderly man agreed. “But I’m afraid the same can’t be said for you.”

Before Chrom could withdraw, an armored guard slid from behind the throne, his axe blade grazing the captain’s neck as he staggered down the steps. “What in the gods’ names--!?”

“Oh, no no, don’t be so hasty,” the heirarch chided as more soldiers spilled into the room from the hall at their backs. “Gangrel wants him kept alive for a public execution, don’t you recall?”

“Does he really need both? Bet the girl’d satisfy him just fine,” the man shrugged. Lissa shied behind Frederick as the great knight tightened his grip on his weapon. 

“What’s the meaning of this!?” Chrom demanded. 

The heirarch glanced over his spectacles at the prince. “What, pray tell, do you mean?” he asked. “I’m the sovereign of the halidom. You lot are nothing but treacherous filth, disturbing the peace.”

Robin’s mind reeled. Gods, why hadn’t he seen it? The attack on the palace had been too well-orchestrated to be luck alone, the peace agreement too swift for even an act of conquest -- 

“It was you,” he breathed. “You organized the assassination. The treaty. Everything.”

The heirarch turned to smile at the tactician. “You are a smart lad, aren’t you?” he chuckled. 

Chrom’s voice cracked as he turned his sword on the old man. “ _Why?_ You helped guide Emm at the start of her rule -- you stood by her in every council -- why would you do this!?”

“Because that girl was too weak to rule a nation.”

Robin saw the prince begin to tremble. “Don’t you _dare_ call her weak.”

“I only speak the truth,” the man sighed. “Guiding the halidom calls for a strong and steady hand. All her idealistic notions of _peace_ and _pacifism,_ of _defense without retaliation_ in a war -- Ylisse would not survive if her reign had been allowed to continue. You know it as well as I do, dear boy. Gangrel may be a bit odd, but he knows precisely what it takes to be an effective ruler. Just the way your father did. If only he’d lived on, the halidom would never have fallen into such a sorry state.”

“You _dastard--_ ”

“Oh, come now. No need for such language, or such a face,” the heirarch tutted. “Simply hand over the Emblem and I’ll see to it that no one suffers.”

“You think I’d trust you after what you did to my sister!?” the prince snarled. “I’ll see you rot in _hell!”_

“More’s the pity,” the man sighed. “Take the prince and princess. Kill the rest -- oh, but spare the tactician. And be gentle. That woman promised me a grand reward if I could deliver him in one piece.”

Panic shot through Robin’s veins, electrifying his reflexes as he reached for the tome in his coat. The Shepherds pulled closer together as the armed knights advanced, weapons at the ready --

The heirarch choked and fell, his head rolling down the stairs to rest at Chrom’s feet. 

Lissa made a small sound, burying her face in her hands as the Plegian beside the throne wiped the blood from his axe. “Funny, that,” he remarked. “She promised me the same thing.”

The prince stared down at the heirarch’s head, its features gradually sagging from a look of surprise to a slack, expressionless mask. “Why did you do that?” he whispered. 

“Why?” the knight snorted. “You said it yourself. That swine sold out his own sovereign. He’d have stabbed us in the back first chance he got. We’re not stupid. We knew you goody-goody Shepherds would come running if you heard one of your friends was in trouble, so we let him have his fun. And now it’s time we had ours.”

The Plegian knights charged--

And a great wall of flame engulfed them as Ricken’s wind magic stoked Miriel’s hail of fireballs into an inferno. The mages sheltered in the center of their defensive ring continued their chant as the enemy soldiers struggled to escape the blaze, only to meet the Shepherds’ steel. 

“You little shit -- I’ll spatter you across your own castle walls!”

The tactician turned as the heirarch’s killer leapt through the flames, staggering him with an arc of lightning an instant before Chrom’s sword pierced the dark chestplate and sent him sprawling into the fire. 

Even as he burned, the man’s laughter echoed over the crackling blaze. “You doves think…killing me will change anything? Your precious exalt is dead…your kingdom is in chaos…what hope can you have of winning this war…when your house is crumbling…around you…”

“You’re wrong,” the prince murmured, lowering his blade. “We’ve lost much, but we have not given in to despair. Our people still have hope. The halidom has not fallen. Only your army has.”

And yet, a grave expression darkened the captain’s features as he turned to his troops. “Ylisstol is free,” he said. “But it is not yet secure. We need to see to the people, first and foremost. …thank you. All of you. The city would still be under Plegian control if not for your bravery. The halidom owes you a debt.”

“Spoken like a true royal.”

The Shepherds looked up as applause rang through the throne room. Basilio and Flavia, flanked by their troops, made their way through the doors as the ring of flames burned out, leaving nothing more than a dark scorch on the pale stone floor. “Nice speech, Prince Chrom,” Flavia added. “Think you’ll feel up to making another one? Everybody outside’s gonna want to hear about what happened. Hell, _I_ want to know what the fuck happened. This place smells like a godsdamn boar roast.”

Robin’s stomach twisted as he covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve. He’d been doing a fine job of ignoring that stench until she brought it up. 

“I’ll explain later,” Chrom said. “Let’s return to the church. The courtyard should be big enough to hold a crowd, and the bell can be heard from anywhere in the city.”

“It’s not been rung since the Plegians first arrived,” Libra remarked. “I’m sure it will reassure the people, to hear it again.”

Robin was sure it would. But it would do nothing to soothe his own turmoil.


	12. Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Ylisstol free from Plegian occupation, the Shepherds and their Feroxi allies make ready for their next march to meet the Mad King's forces. The preparations strain even the best of the Ylisseans, and as war looms on the horizon, they must face the reality of the coming conflict...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: Explicit Sex**  
> 
> 
>   
> **Yes, there is sex in this chapter.** It's not graphic or extreme, but it is there as part of _The Ongoing Comedy of Errors: Their Relationship._ If you don't feel comfortable reading that, don't worry! It's not for everyone. Feel free to skip down to the first perspective change (***) and you should be good to read on from there. And even if you don't feel up to reading this chapter, please see the end notes for a brief personal announcement.
> 
> More perspective shifts this chapter. Dashes (-) still indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

By the time the Chrom finished speaking to what appeared to be the whole of the city’s population and the Shepherds returned to the castle, the moon had risen high over the church spire. In spite of the Plegian occupation, the garrison appeared unharmed; only the surplus of axes gave any indication that the barracks had been used by another force. 

While the rest of the troops set to squabbling over who would be first in the bath, Robin retreated into the remnants of the palace gardens. The once green trees now stood bare and blackened from the fires of the first attack, adding to his mounting unease at the events of the night. And with a march into Plegia on the horizon, things would likely grow worse before they improved--

“Robin?”

The tactician looked up to see Chrom standing in the center of the courtyard. Gods, this all felt so familiar. Hadn’t something much like this happened on the night of the assassination?

“What brings you out so late?” Robin asked.

“Just trying to clear my head. It was a lot easier before the gardens…” He trailed off, gesturing at the charred remnants. “You?”

“Passing the time,” the tactician sighed. 

“Line for the bath?”

“I’m fairly sure it devolved into a fistfight.”

“Did Sully win?”

“Of course she did, what do you take her for?”

The captain laughed at that, and Robin felt a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth. Turning, Chrom moved back toward the castle, gesturing for the tactician to follow. 

Robin hesitated for just a moment -- but it wasn’t as though he had any better plans for waiting out the crowd at the garrison. So he moved along in the prince’s wake, keeping close as they wandered the corridors and marveling at just how different the palace of Ylisstol felt after spending so long in the Feroxi stronghold, with its curving halls and central arena--

Chrom opened a door, stepping aside for the tactician. Bowing his head, Robin entered--

Fragrant steam filled his lungs. He stopped short, taking in the castle baths with awe and no small amount of trepidation: while many of the tiled basins set into the floor were empty, one had been filled nearly to the brim with warm water, sending a dense fog swirling across the ceiling.

This was too much for him. 

The tactician made a swift about-face--

\--only to find the prince blocking the door. 

“Robin.” He flinched into his collar as Chrom touched his shoulder. “ _Relax._ Lissa’s finished up and no one else is coming in.”

“This is--”

“Something I can do for you,” the captain said, cutting over his protests. “You’ve run yourself ragged, coordinating our strategy to free Ylisstol and then fighting alongside us. You deserve this. Now _relax,_ ” he chuckled, turning the tactician back toward the bath. 

Robin simply stood for a moment as the door at his back closed, breathing in the warmth around him. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt. And Chrom did say no one else would be coming in. Shrugging out of his coat--

“So what do you think the heirarch meant when he said ‘that woman’ offered him a reward?”

The tactician pulled his cloak tight around him, whirling toward the door only to have the prince stop him again. “Gods, Robin, calm down! It’s like a public bath--”

“ _I’ve never been in a public bath,_ ” the tactician hissed. 

Chrom’s brows rose in surprise. “What? Why?” Robin fixed him with a flat stare, holding up his marked hand; even with a glove to hide his Eyes, the message was clear. “Oh. Right. …I suppose that’s why you don’t wash with the rest of the men.”

“Exactly right. Now, if you’ll excuse me--”

“No, I won’t,” the captain sighed, catching the tactician’s arm. “Calm down. You’re not in danger -- it’s just us here. Try to relax.”

Gods, everything in Robin screamed at him to get out. But he was tired, and every inch of his skin felt grimy with soot and blood. “I must be mad,” he muttered, removing his coat and folding it over his arm. 

“I wouldn’t say that,” Chrom chuckled. “So who do you think they meant by ‘that woman’?”

The tactician was glad for the distraction as he disrobed. “I don’t know. They might have been referring to the woman who accompanied Gangrel at the border pass, with the pale hair and the dark robes.”

“I think ‘robe’ is an exaggeration for what she was wearing.”

“I didn’t have the best view from where we waited. Regardless -- someone must have recognized me. And now the Grimleal know precisely where I am.”

Exactly what he’d been trying to avoid by joining the Shepherds. 

Gods, that trail of thought would not help him relax. Hastily removing his smallclothes, Robin slipped into the water…

…and melted in the blissful heat surrounding him. He’d gotten so used to cold streams or at best tepid basins -- the warmth seeped down into his bones, loosening tensions he’d forgotten about entirely. 

The water rippled as Chrom slid into the bath beside him. The tactician twitched, but did not move away. He didn’t feel like moving at all. Odds were poor that he’d ever have a chance to enjoy this again, and he fully intended to make the most of it--

The prince’s arm slid around his waist, drawing him closer. Robin pulled away, his skin prickling uncomfortably in the wake of that touch. “Are you drunk?”

Chrom frowned. “Why do you keep asking me that?”

Robin drew a breath…

…and stopped, raking his fingers through his hair, leaving pale locks clinging to his forehead as water streamed down his face. “Is it really so strange for someone to take an interest in you?” the captain pressed. 

“No one pays this much attention to me unless they’re bleeding beer.”

Silence. A cold fear slid down the tactician’s spine as he pressed against the far side of the bath, sifting his shaky hands through his hair again. 

“…is this about those men that pushed you around?” Chrom asked. “The ones that called you Grimmer?”

“And everyone like them,” Robin breathed. 

The bath rippled again before the prince’s palm cupped his cheek. “Do you think I’m like them?”

“No!” the tactician insisted, looking up-- 

Chrom’s forehead settled against his. “I’m glad.” Even through the steam, his breath felt warm against Robin’s skin. 

The kiss was gentle. Light. Unfamiliar, even still, but some tiny, foolish part of him had begun to yearn for it. Returning that touch, he felt the prince smile against his mouth, his fingertips caressing the tactician’s jaw, trailing down the side of his neck to his shoulder and across his breast. 

The heat of that touch burned. He’d never known this sensation before. It made his head swim, his heart race, his breath fray. The thunder of his heartbeat drowned out all other sound as the prince leaned closer, his lips grazing Robin’s throat. He was vulnerable, exposed, but he felt no fear at that realization -- only a dizzying rush, warmth pooling under his stomach as Chrom’s hands traced lines of fire across his skin, down to his groin, along his length--

“What’s that?”

Gods, he’d forgotten that.

A cold splash of embarrassment sent the tactician shrinking down into the water, his hands covering his face. “No, stand up.”

Robin tried to say no, but with mouth submerged it came out as nothing but bubbles. 

“You’re going to drown,” Chrom laughed. “Stand up or I’ll have to pick you up.”

He might prefer drowning. 

But he had a feeling that the prince was serious about that threat. Shame burned his cheeks as he pulled himself up out of the bath, sitting on the edge of the stones and hiding his face in his hands. His momentary excitement had yet to flag completely -- and the prince’s curious touch did not help matters. 

“What is that?” the captain asked again.

“It’s a foreskin,” the tactician mumbled through his fingers. 

“Is that a Grimleal thing?”

“No, it’s a normal thing. Cutting it is traditional for Naga’s followers, Grimleal and Feroxis leave it intact.”

“…huh. Something else you learned from books?”

“Obviously.”

He got the sense that Chrom was smiling, but didn’t dare look up. Gods, he should never have succumbed to this temptation, he’d known it would end badly--

The prince’s fingers curled around Robin’s length, his thumb and forefinger massaging the head beneath his foreskin. The tactician’s breath hitched as he curled inward, knowing even as he did that he could not hide from this. 

Worst was the fact that it felt _pleasant._ He could have retreated, even rebuffed that touch, if it wasn’t. But even as he huddled at the edge of the basin with only his legs dangling in the water, Chrom’s attentions -- his _affections_ \-- spread a deeper warmth through his core, burning away his senses.

The water moved, lapping against his skin -- and then the prince’s fingers sifted into his hair, his lips pressing against the tactician’s temple. “Is this alright?” he breathed, pulling the soft roll of skin back. 

Robin nodded. He didn’t trust himself with words. Not while Chrom’s hands caressed him, not while his breath frayed and his heart pounded and his body trembled not from fear but _pleasure._ Dizzy and feeling unsteady at best, the tactician slipped his arms across the captain’s shoulders -- and Chrom in turn pressed close, his own length sliding against Robin’s before his callused fingers tightened around them both. 

Whatever good sense and reason the tactician might have salvaged scattered. The prince’s breath huffed against his ear, but he heard nothing at all over his own heartbeat. He could _feel_ Chrom’s pulse against his skin. The heat radiating through him began to crackle, electric tension knotting through his muscles and drawing him still closer against the captain.

He feared he would draw blood if he bit his lip any harder. But _something_ rose within his breast -- whether a breath or a cry, he did not know, and he did not dare let it out. Without a release he would break, and with every gasp, every thrust, that seemed more and more inevitable -- but his delirious mind saw that as a boon, if it only prolonged this bliss…

“Chrom--”

No more than a whisper, it slipped out on a fraying breath -- and with it the pressure burst, his limbs twitching and curling for an instant before he unraveled. 

The prince caught him. Or at the very least, he steadied the shaky tactician with one arm, propping the both of them up against the edge of the basin with the other while Robin’s strength and senses seeped back.

“That was nice,” Chrom mumbled. “You feel alright?” The tactician nodded against his shoulder. “Good.”

The captain pulled away, and Robin struggled briefly to find his balance. And then the prince’s arm settled around his waist again, easing the tactician back into the water beside him. 

He felt dazed and drowsy in the heat of Chrom’s embrace, his head resting heavily against the prince’s shoulder. It occurred to him, distantly, that perhaps this was a dream, and he’d simply fallen asleep in the garrison while waiting for the bath to empty. This could never happen in the waking world. 

But he much preferred this to his usual nightmares. And knowing what would come with the morning, he wished he could simply dream on, lost in this contented peace.

***

The city began to recover with the dawn. The bell in the Church of Naga tolled to welcome the sunrise, rousing Chrom as it always had in his childhood. The castle staff smiled as he passed by them in the halls, and the streets beyond the palace grounds were crowded with people when he made his way to the garrison. A far cry from the deathly silence that had greeted the Shepherds when they first set foot in Ylisstol.

The barracks were quiet when he arrived. A few soldiers had already roused for breakfast -- Robin among them, much to the prince’s surprise. The tactician had been at best dead on his feet when they’d left the bath late the night before. Chrom hadn’t even been sure Robin would make it to a bed, let alone rise at any respectable hour. But he sat at the table with the rest of the Shepherds that had managed to tear themselves from their warm cots, leafing through a worn tome over a thick slice of bread slathered in marmalade. 

As he sat with the rest of the troops for the morning meal, a warm sense of familiarity stole over him. This was how it had been before, when the halidom’s peace had been disturbed only by thieves and bandits, and easily restored by the Shepherds. Maybe one day Ylisse could return to that. 

But not yet. They had more work to do before his sister’s nation came to be. 

He’d expected to spend the next few days helping with the city restoration, planning the next march against Gangrel and his army, gathering supplies and soldiers from whatever remained of the guard. And he was ready for that -- as much as he could be, at least.

But the thought of Emmeryn brought a crushing realization with it that he could never hope to prepare for. 

He sought out the taguel that had kept her distance from the rest of the troop since they embarked to Ferox. She listened silently to his request -- and then she left, waiting for him to follow before slipping through the thick ivy on the castle walls and into the narrow passage it hid from view. 

He remembered this. The cool air, the close stones -- it had been easier sneaking through this way when he’d been smaller. But he still knew the twists and turns.

His stomach churned as a familiar odor caught his attention. The metallic bite of blood -- and, however faint, the heavier stench of decay. 

He had prayed that perhaps, by some miracle, she might have survived. Escaped. That when Panne brought him to where she’d met the exalt, they would find nothing. 

A fool’s hope. 

The heirarch’s betrayal had shaken his resolve. 

Finding his sister’s remains shattered it. 

The dark kept him from having to face her wounds. For a moment, at least. Wrapping his cape around the body (and wondering as he did when Emmeryn had grown so small, when she had always been the greatest of them, the strongest of them, the _best_ of them), the prince and the taguel made their way back into the palace beyond the scarred tapestry that hid the way. 

He heard Frederick’s steps in the hall beyond. Heard his voice, for an instant, before silence took hold again. Felt his trembling hand guiding them through the castle. Chrom did not know where to. And he did not care. 

Preparations were made with speed and care. He heard them whirling around him like a swarm of flies, but none of their buzzing seemed to matter. Nothing did. Not the staff tiptoeing around him, not the Shepherds with their soft words of encouragement, or condolence, or sympathy…none of it. 

He’d thought he was ready. To face Ylisse, its people, his responsibilities. 

But he had not been ready to face Emm’s death. Not like this. 

Bells tolled. The city that had begun the day with cheer went into mourning. The crypt beneath the palace was unsealed. And as twilight fell over Ylisstol, Chrom led the small procession down into the vault where Naga’s line made their final rest. 

Libra gave the service as they placed as Emmeryn’s body, wrapped in a pale shroud, in the empty niche that had been prepared the day her brand surfaced. The war monk’s sweet voice rang among the stones, hauntingly beautiful even in its echoes as he sang Naga’s requiem. And as the silence pressed in upon them again, they retreated back to the warmth of the palace halls. 

All but Chrom. 

There were so many things he never had a chance to say to her. So many things he’d wanted to tell her, to ask her -- but now, even if he pleaded, she could not answer. She could not guide him any longer. 

“I’m sorry, Emm,” he whispered. “I didn’t want to leave you. I wanted to save you. I wanted…” 

“I think she knows -- it’s why she wanted you to escape.”

The prince jumped, whirling as a shadow moved out of the dark. “Robin.” Not who he’d been expecting. He scrubbed his eyes, trying to clear his blurry vision. “Why are you still here?”

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” the tactician murmured. “I…I was hoping to pay my respects. If that would be alright.”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because I’m Grimleal,” Robin replied. “It might be considered…sacrilegious. And I don’t want to cause any disrespect.”

Chrom smiled faintly. “Knowing Emm, it would make her happy.” She had given her life to secure peace and acceptance for everyone in Ylisstol, after all. 

The tactician returned the prince’s weak attempt at cheer, moving to stand beside him. Closing his eyes, Robin bowed his head, lifting one hand and touching the tips of his thumb and middle finger to his temples, then the corners of his eyes, and finally his chest, before lacing his fingers over his belt. 

“May the gentle earth welcome you to her embrace,” the tactician murmured. “May she cradle and soothe you, now that your journey is at its end, and may her warmth restore you and bring you peace. And when at last your spirit yearns to wander anew, may the light that greets you give you greater joy for every sorrow, greater bliss for every pain, and greater love for every loss.”

Silence crept back over them as Robin unfolded his hands, slipping them into his pockets. “I’ve never seen a burial like this,” he admitted. “I don’t know if there are other parting prayers more suited, or…”

“Well, this is a bit of a special case,” Chrom admitted. “The exalted lineage is interred here, and the Church of Naga will place its saints in crypts…but most Ylisseans are buried in caskets in the ground. …do Grimleal not bury their dead?”

“They do,” the tactician agreed. “But not in a casket. They’re returned to the earth wrapped only in a shroud, so that their bodies might nourish new growth while their souls go on into a new life.”

“New life?” he repeated. “The Church of Naga preaches that the dead are taken to eternal peace at the end of their life here.”

“I’ve heard,” Robin murmured. “I’ve sat in on a few services, here and there. Grima’s followers -- well, my mother’s sect, at least -- believe that when we die and our bodies are returned to Grima -- the fell dragon became part of the earth when she was defeated by Naga, according to the legends -- their souls are freed, and Grima restores them and returns them to the world in a new body to live again. Because even though it can be frightening, painful, even cruel…life is a blessing. There is hope. Joy. Friendship. …love.”

The prince glanced over at the tactician and found him smiling. Reaching out, he gently touched Robin’s sleeve…and in response, the tactician slipped his hand into Chrom’s. 

“I hope…that she’s happy, whatever awaits her,” the captain murmured. 

Robin’s fingers tightened reassuringly. “As do I. As do we all.”

He lingered a moment longer before Emmeryn’s final resting place. He still missed her. His heart still ached, when he thought of her smile, her laughter, her voice. There were still so many things he wished he could have said, so many questions he wished he could have asked. 

But he had to live on without her. He had to live on _for_ her. To make real the peace she’d dreamed of, to keep alive the hope she’d inspired. 

And he had to live on for himself. Because, bleak as things had so often seemed of late, the tactician was right: happiness would come again. 

And as he walked up into the warm torchlight of the palace with Robin’s hand in his, he thought he felt it kindle anew in his heart.

***

The somber air that had settled over the city following Emmeryn’s burial began to ease over the next few days. Perhaps because their prince and his Shepherds remained, restoring some sense of stability in this time of unrest. Chrom had not been idle in that time, seeing to the distribution of food, supplies, and aid for the people of Ylisstol; overseeing the inspection and training of the new Ylissean Guard volunteers; and all on top of his councils with Flavia and Basilio.

Robin truthfully didn’t know how the prince managed it all. The meetings with the Feroxis alone were overwhelming to him. He’d have long ago broken under the strain. 

But with each council, their plans came together. Which meant that soon they would cross the Plegian borders. 

As the meeting adjourned for the day, the tactician collected his growing collection of hand-drawn maps, folding them and tucking them away in his coat while the khans retired to tend their troops and Frederick left to check on the Ylisseans’ training. Dwelling on their impending march made it hard to breathe. He’d spent his life keeping as far from those borders as he could manage. To cross them of his own volition invited a fate far worse than death--

“Are you alright?”

Robin twitched at the sound of Chrom’s voice. He’d thought everyone else had left already; obviously he needed to pay more attention. “I’m fine.”

“Then why are you shaking?”

He hadn’t realized he was. Twisting his hand in his sleeve, the tactician took a deep breath, fighting to steady himself--

“You’re worried about something.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked. 

“You’re doing that thing with your sleeve,” the prince said.

“What thing?”

“You grab it when you’re worried. And you rub your Eyes when you’re nervous.”

Gods, the things he’d never paid attention to. 

Chrom’s hand touched his tense fingers. “What’s bothering you?”

There seemed no point in denying it. “This…this march into Plegia.”

“Do you think we’re missing something?”

“No, not…I think our plans are sound. It’s nothing, just a craven’s hesitation--”

The prince’s arms curled around him. “They won’t take you.”

When had he become so transparent to the prince? “How can you know?”

“Because we won’t let them. _I_ won’t let them.”

“You make that sound so easy.”

“You have to trust us. The Shepherds and the Feroxis both will be there to keep you safe--”

“Chrom, you don’t understand. This is a _war._ It’s not like the battles we’ve fought before, a few men pitted against a few enemies. We’re going onto the battlefield. Taking a man there is less a matter of fighting through an army than it is disabling the target and dragging them off in the confusion. And there will be confusion. With so many soldiers from _both_ sides fighting to survive, how can you possibly imagine that _any_ of us are _safe?”_

“Robin, calm down.” The prince’s hands settled on his shoulders, and the tactician fought to catch his breath. “I know it’s frightening. But you’re not going alone. You’ve taught us well, remember? We look out for each other.”

“And what if whoever’s looking out for me _dies_ because of that?” Robin demanded. “The Plegians _know_ I’m here, they’ve put a godsdamn _bounty_ on my head, and I’ll be walking right into their hands when we march--“

“We’re not going to give you up without a fight -- I’ll be there with you--”

“That’s what scares me most,” the tactician whispered. “What if you’re the one who’s hurt -- what if I’m the one who hurts you?”

Chrom’s hands tightened on Robin’s shoulders. “…why would you do that?” 

“I wouldn’t want -- I’d _never_ want to hurt you, but if the Grimleal get ahold of me, if they awaken Grima, I don’t know what will happen--”

It was getting harder to breathe again. The prince’s touch vanished, and the tactician pulled his coat closer around him. 

“Here.”

He blinked down at the dagger in Chrom’s hand. “What--”

“Take it.”

Robin looked up at Chrom’s face, struggling to understand. The cold calm in the captain’s eyes forced him back a step. “I don’t--”

“ _Take it._ ”

The tactician lifted his hands defensively. The prince caught his wrist, forcing the knife’s hilt into his palm. “Try it.”

“No, Chrom--”

“If you’re so convinced that you can hurt me, do it.”

“I don’t want to--”

“Do it.”

“ _Please--_ ”

“ _Do it!”_

Robin flinched back, bringing his other hand up to the trembling blade -- and as he did, Chrom grabbed his wrist, twisting the tactician’s arm behind him. The dagger fell, clattering distantly on the stones as Robin’s free hand flailed for something to steady himself against -- but the prince caught his other arm, pulling it painfully back. 

He couldn’t breathe. 

He struggled against Chrom’s grip, gasping for air that would not come. His heart pounded painfully in his chest, drowning out all other sound. The room spun when he opened his eyes, and closing them only made the vertigo stronger. He doubled over, his knees giving way as he fought desperately for breath, his head swimming, thoughts swirling in and out of focus too fast to comprehend -- gods, he was dying, drowning in air if his heart did not fail him first--

_“Robin!”_

Chrom’s voice. Distant. He cracked one eye open to see the prince kneeling before him. When had that happened?

“Can you hear me?” Chrom asked. Clearer now. The tactician inhaled a trembling breath, forcing the air as deep as he could manage. His thoughts calmed from a frenzied maelstrom as his heart slowed. His ribs still ached from where it had tried to escape. “Robin?”

“Yes,” the tactician whispered. “I can hear you.”

The prince’s fingers touched his cheek. Robin breathed a slow, heavy sigh, tilting his head into Chrom’s hand. “Are you alright? What happened?”

Gods, if only he had an easy answer for that. “My fear got the better of me.”

Warm fingers brushed the hair away from the tactician’s face. “…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

Robin shook his head. “I’ll forgive you if you promise not to do that again.”

“I swear.” Chrom’s hand folded around his fingers, and the tactician returned the gentle pressure as best he could. “…do you feel it often? That fear?”

A weak smile twitched at Robin’s mouth. “I’ve gotten very good at fighting it back.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

The tactician sighed. “It’s always there. Sometimes it’s quieter. Just a whisper of unease. Sometimes I can’t hear anything else over the screaming panic.”

“And this…” 

“Worse than usual. Normally I can force it down to focus on more important things. Like surviving.”

The prince’s hand continued to smooth Robin’s hair. “What do you do when it gets this bad, then?”

“Hide. Somewhere safe, out of the way. Let it pass. Try to calm down. Sleep, when it’s over. Fear is exhausting.”

“No wonder you look so tired at all hours,” Chrom murmured. “Wait here, alright?”

The touch vanished, and a brief stirring of panic roused the tactician, his hand reaching out for the prince again -- but he felt nothing, and the room still spun sickeningly when he opened his eyes. He sagged back against the wall instead, wrapping the coat tighter around him as the door opened. 

“Could you bring something here?” he heard Chrom ask someone in the hall beyond. “…tea. …yes, tea. …gods, what’s the one Maribelle always talks about when Lissa’s late?”

“Chamomile,” Robin called. 

“Yes, that,” the prince said, snapping his fingers. “Chamomile. Thank you.” The door closed again, and Chrom’s steps returned. The tactician breathed a shaky sigh as warm fingers smoothed his hair again. “Maribelle always says it calms her nerves. Maybe it’ll help.”

“It’s worth a try,” Robin agreed. The prince settled close against the tactician’s side, his arm curling gently behind Robin and drawing him close. Still fighting to steady his breath, the tactician lay his head heavily against Chrom’s shoulder. He smelled of road dust, even after a week in Ylisse. Dust and sweat, metal and oil. The tactician had never considered those scents to be soothing before. But his trembling stilled as he breathed them in, calm creeping back over him as he settled in the warmth of Chrom’s arms.

\-----

By the time the tea arrived on a silver tray, Chrom had managed to get Robin up into a chair, and though he thought little of the taste, the heat proved to be quite calming. And though he might have made it back to the garrison without help, the prince still escorted him and saw him to an empty bed.

Sleep came quickly. But while it lasted longer than expected, he woke feeling just as drained as when he’d fallen onto the cot. 

Lying in the dark would do him no good. It never had before, after all. Creeping out of the sleeping quarters, the tactician made his way out into the main hall, settling before the fire and drawing the book he’d borrowed from Sumia out of his coat. Maybe he could finally return it--

“I thought I heard someone up and about -- good evening, Robin.”

The tactician’s heart sank. Gods, he did not feel mentally prepared to deal with this. 

“Good evening, Maribelle,” he murmured as the troubadour sat in the chair beside him. 

“Are you enjoying your book?”

“I haven’t started it yet.”

“Oh, please, don’t let me keep you -- I’m sure you have a rousing treatise on diplomatic law or political nuance to occupy you. Pray tell, what is it?”

“ _Wyvern Wars: Terror at High Noon._ ”

Silence. A small, bitter part of his mind felt rather pleased about that. 

“Oh. I see.”

“I borrowed it from Sumia.”

“Ah. Well, she is quite fond of her…fictions. When I heard from the captain that the chamomile he’d requested was for you, I’d hoped that perhaps you were rather more…cultured than that.”

Oh, gods. He should have known that trouble would find him when Chrom brought up the noblewoman’s name. But he’d been too weary to care. 

“Did you enjoy it?” she pressed.

“Yes.”

“Oh, that’s lovely to hear -- I brewed it myself, you know. I find that a touch of elderberry brings a perfect hint of sweetness to it, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had elderberry or chamomile tea before.”

“…I see. Pray tell, then, why would the captain request such a specific blend for a tasteless lowborn?”

Robin’s eyes narrowed at the sudden prickle of irritation. “You speak so highly of it, and the council was so trying, I thought to test it for myself. Now did you come to look down your nose at me, or was there something else you needed?” he asked.

“A noble’s nose engages in no such activities!” Maribelle replied, her nose turned up at the affront. “I was sincerely impressed when I heard. If my turn of phrase offended, I do apologize. Forgive me?”

He’d rather not. But he also preferred not to make enemies. “Alright. I take it back. But was there something else you needed?”

“Yes, in fact -- I had hoped to learn more about you.”

The tactician glanced at her. “Me? Why? I’m not terribly interesting, you know.” Not to someone like her, at least. 

“Can you fault me for being curious about the foreigner with a genius for strategy?” the troubadour giggled. “You’ve also earned quite a bit of trust from my dear friend Lissa. It’s only natural that I’d want to learn more about the stranger in our midst, don’t you agree? I suppose you might simply say that I hoped we could become…friends. Unless you object, of course.”

“No, I don’t object, per se.” Though he didn’t see how such a feat could be accomplished. Maybe some common ground would help. “So how did you and Lissa become friends, if I may ask?”

“You may _not_ ask! How rude, asking a noblewoman something so _personal_ \-- and about _royalty,_ no less! I knew you baseborn oafs lacked manners, but I’d not expected something so _churlish!”_

Well. That friendship was even shorter-lived than he’d expected. Taking to his feet, the tactician bowed his head and turned to leave--

“Where do you think you’re going? You’ve not asked to be excused from a lady’s presence -- were you reared in a barn?”

Robin stopped. Good sense would dictate that he should simply turn, apologize, and be on his way. But the events of the evening had exhausted the full measure of his patience. And Maribelle had finally trod upon his last nerve. 

“May I speak frankly?” he asked, turning toward the troubadour. 

“Friends should always be encouraged to speak the truth of what’s on their minds,” Maribelle agreed. 

“I appreciate that,” the tactician said. “Because frankly, I find you to be a small-minded, prejudicial bigot too obsessed with bloodlines to forge a true friendship with anyone not bearing a title before their name.”

The troubadour’s face paled, her eyes widening as her mouth fell open. And then she went livid, leaping from her chair and jabbing his chest with her parasol. “Now see here, you cretin--”

“There. That’s exactly what I mean.”

She stopped, the tip of her umbrella still hovering at the level of his chest. “Me. Vaike. Sumia. Kellam. Lon’qu. Donnel. You treat us worse than dogs. You insult us at every turn, belittle us for every windfall and demean us for every shortcoming. Even if you don’t mean the words to be condescending, your attitude alienates the rest of the Shepherds because you can’t speak to them with even a modicum of respect. Because we can’t present you with a godsdamn pedigree, you see us as _beneath_ you, grant us not even the most meager of courtesies, and take for granted every good turn as something you _deserve_ because we should be so _honored_ to serve someone of your station. I don’t speak for the rest of them -- I can’t, and I would never think to -- but speaking for myself alone, your lack of gratitude only goes to prove your lack of common decency.”

He’d begun to tremble as the words spilled out. So had she, rage smoldering behind her dark eyes. “What gives you the right--”

“You said yourself that friends should be encouraged to speak the truth. And if you want so _earnestly_ to be friends, I suggest you look inward before demanding that the world around you change to suit your every whim. Lissa has no problem speaking with me, or any of the ‘baseborn’ Shepherds, after all.”

“My treasure can be so naïve, it’s my responsibility to look out for her--”

“Or perhaps your treasure simply recognizes that blood is not the best measure of a person’s worth. Something you could stand to learn. Now, if you’ll _excuse me._ ”

He did not wait to hear her answer. Turning on his heel, the tactician strode across the garrison and out into the silent gardens. The troubadour did not follow. 

He’d not intended to burn bridges with any of his fellow Shepherds. And speaking his mind had not left him feeling as relieved as he’d hoped. He’d pay dearly somewhere down the line for that indiscretion.

But he would not regret speaking the truth, regardless of the consequences.

***

Within the week, preparations for the march neared completion. Satisfied with the state of the volunteer guard, Frederick had approved them for the duty of protecting Ylisstol -- and while they added only a few new soldiers to the Ylissean force (mostly Libra’s fellow clergy members), the troops had all taken the time to rest and heal from the last battle. They would be ready when the next fight came.

Chrom had yet to name a regent to lead Ylisse until their return. That was proving to be the most difficult decision so far. After the heirarch…he didn’t know who they could trust. He had considered naming one of the senior members of the Ylissean Guard that had survived the attack to the palace, or perhaps one of the remaining pegasus knights. He would need to consult with Frederick -- or, more likely, the great knight would hunt him down to discuss it. 

But for the moment, he had no duties or training to attend to. And as he had so often in the days before the world changed beyond recognition, he took that reprieve in the gardens. 

Or what remained of them, at least. Part of him hoped that he would leave the castle to find the trees as lush and green as he remembered. But every time he’d been disappointed, seeing only charred trunks and scorched ground. 

Not the best place to get away from thoughts of the recent upheaval. 

As he made his way down the familiar paths, a figure came into view, hunched by the side of the trail. “Robin?”

“Look at this,” the tactician called, waving the prince closer. 

“Did you find something?” He hesitated to ask just what, if Robin had…

…but as he crouched down, watching the tactician gently brushing away the ash around the roots of the trees, he saw a flash of green. Small, but unmistakable. “Now?”

“I’m as surprised as you are,” Robin laughed. “I thought I was imagining things when I first saw them.”

Well, it wasn’t a full garden. But it was certainly more than Chrom had expected in the middle of winter. Even the tactician seemed heartened by that sight. It wasn’t often that he let a real smile slip through. 

“Are you happy?”

Robin looked up at him in surprise. It probably did seem an odd question. But the longer he went without speaking, the more the prince began to worry. “Silence doesn’t bode well,” he prompted gently. 

The tactician smiled again. Softer, this time, but still a far cry from his usual guarded half-expression. Pushing himself up to his feet, Robin offered a hand down to help Chrom up before moving further down the path, his hands tucked in his pockets. 

“Yes.”

The prince hadn’t been expecting that. “I sense a ‘but’ coming on,” he remarked. 

“However--” The tactician paused, turning a faintly amused stare on the grinning captain. “…I’m troubled.”

“Still?”

“Always.”

Chrom touched Robin’s arm. “What is it this time?”

The tactician’s smile faded further. “Are you happy?”

“You can’t answer a question with a question,” the prince chuckled. But, if he thought about it… “…yes. It’s still hard, dealing with Emmeryn’s death, and everything else that’s happened -- everything that’s coming -- but…right now, I am.”

Robin passed a shaky hand through his hair. Chrom caught it before he could hide it back in his coat, folding his fingers around the tactician’s. That, at least, brought the ghost of a smile back.

It was gone as quickly as it appeared, though. “What would you feel if I left?”

The prince stopped. Robin paused, his attention fixed on the stones beneath their feet. “Where are--”

“That’s not the question, Chrom.”

The captain frowned. “I’d be worried that something happened to you -- that you’d been captured by Grimleal, or been threatened, or hurt, or…” His grip tightened on the tactician’s hand. Even through the glove, Robin’s fingers felt cold. “I’d be angry that someone else was taken from me.”

He felt the tactician begin to tremble. “That’s what troubles me.”

“…the fact that I care about you?”

“Yes. …and no.” 

“I don’t understand.”

Robin raked his other hand through his hair. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I never wanted to. I’ve tried so hard, for so long, to keep to myself so that when I left, no one would notice. No one would care. But…things have changed so much, and we’re marching to Plegia, and gods only know what’s going to happen there--”

Chrom slipped his arms around the tactician, pulling him close to still his shivering. “You don’t have to come. You can stay here, keep Ylisstol safe while we’re gone--”

“No.”

Robin took a shaky breath, leaning his forehead against the prince’s. “I’m supposed to be the Shepherds’ tactician. I can’t abandon you when you need me most.”

“But you’d be safe--”

“I’d be safer at your side than I would be here. At least the Shepherds care for me beyond a royal order.”

However guilty it made him feel, Chrom was relieved to hear those words. “No harm will come to you. I swear it.”

“You can’t swear that,” the tactician murmured. “No one can. So I need to ask you something before we march.”

“Anything.”

“If I fall on the battlefield, you need to burn my body and scatter the ash to the winds.”

The prince pulled back, his hands tensing on the tactician’s shoulders. “Don’t ask that of me.” Gods, not after Emmeryn--

“There’s no one else I can ask,” Robin whispered. “No one else who knows.”

“But you said Grimleal bury their dead--”

“They do. But my corpse could be as useful to them as a living vessel. Whatever happens, this body cannot fall into their hands. So if I fall, make sure nothing remains.”

Chrom’s throat tightened. “Please. Please, don’t--”

“I’m not going to throw my life away,” the tactician chuckled. “But…this is a reality we have to face. Not all of us will return. We must plan for the worst as we pray for the best. That’s all. But this is something you can swear to. Even if it never comes to that, I need your oath.”

He didn’t want to face that possibility. The thought alone made him sick. But as he shook his head, Robin touched his cheek with the tips of his fingers. “Please, Chrom. I trust you -- you’ll fight fiercely to keep _everyone_ safe. But if the worst comes to pass…I need your oath.”

He could not speak. As bleak as things had been lately, he didn’t want to consider how much worse they could become…

“Will you swear?” the prince asked. “To take care with your life?”

The tactician smiled weakly. “I’m not eager to die. I’ll make that oath.”

Chrom’s heart ached as he pulled Robin into a tight embrace. “…then I swear it.”

The words cut deep as he spoke them. But the tactician’s tension eased as he curled his arms around the prince’s shoulders. “Thank you.”

If only Robin’s oath could have put him at ease so readily. 

They continued through the cold gardens in silence, arriving back at the courtyard and parting ways. Chrom would have asked the tactician to stay, to join him in the castle -- but by the time he could rally the words, Robin had retreated into the garrison and out of sight. 

Moving back into the palace alone, the prince tried not to think of what the coming days would bring. The strategy, the preparation…the distance had made it easier. He knew -- he’d always known -- that they would face death in Plegia. But the tactician’s request brought it far too close--

“Say something! Say ‘yes, of course we will!’”

Chrom blinked, glancing over at Lissa. He hadn’t even noticed her come up. “I’m sorry, Lissa. What is it?”

The princess huffed, stomping her foot on the stones. “Never mind! Let me know when you get out of your own head for a second!”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that. 

Footsteps. Chrom turned to see Sumia. Drawing a breath--

“Snap out of it, Captain!”

The pegasus knight’s punch came out of nowhere and sent him reeling. “ _Ow!_ What the hell was that for!?”

Sumia’s face went pink. “O-oh, no, did I do it wrong? Captain Phila said sometimes a good slap will break people out of their doldrums…”

Lissa was struggling not to laugh. “Sumia, when you slap someone, you do it with an open palm -- you just punched Chrom in the face!”

The pegasus knight’s face reddened further. “It’s…the thought that counts?”

“Gods, that really hurt,” the prince muttered, rubbing his cheek. Though, he had to admit, it had worked. 

Laughter rang through the hall as Flavia approached, slinging her arm across Chrom’s shoulders. “What’s wrong, my dear prince? Sometimes love hurts! You’re lucky to have strong women like these, and not just dainty flowers about. In any case, I bring good news: the Feroxi army is ready to march for Plegia. Every man is itching for a good fight.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the captain said. “Our preparations should be complete shortly. We’ll march come dawn.”

“That’s the spirit! We’ll meet you at the gates in the morning. Don’t be late.”

As the east khan strode away, Lissa crept up beside him. “Hey, Chrom? Do you think we’ll be okay out there?”

Pulling his sister into a warm embrace, the prince smiled. “We’ll be fine,” he murmured. “I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep all of us safe.”

And come what may, he would see that promise through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to say a few words here, and I thank you in advance for reading through this.
> 
> I started this piece about half a year ago now because I really wanted to write a threesome. 
> 
> Yes, there was nothing more to it than that back then. 
> 
> But the more I started thinking about the story, the characters, and the world, I realized that there was so much more there. It began to grow. My casual little piece of fanfiction became something bigger. And with each passing day, the more I feel the need to write this.
> 
> I find that writing can be especially powerful when it reflects the world around us. And our world right now is a scary place. There's xenophobia, racism, misogyny, bigotry, prejudice, intolerance, and a whole host of other things. And you've probably noticed that a host of those things have come up already in this piece. But you've probably also noticed that those things are things the characters fight against. Even if it's just in small ways, right now. The most seemingly insignificant act of resistance against these problems can, in time, affect great change, if we just try to see them through.
> 
> If you're living in the United States, you've almost certainly heard the election news. You might be afraid. Uncertain of the future for yourself, your friends, your family. I understand. I've felt the same in the past week. 
> 
> It's okay to be afraid. It's okay to be uncertain. It's okay to worry. But please know that you are not alone. No matter what, you are not alone. If you ever need someone to listen to you, talk to you, or just chat with you, you can reach out to me anytime. [My Tumblr inbox](iturbide.tumblr.com/ask) links straight to my phone, so if you send me a message, I'll see it immediately and respond as soon as I'm able. 
> 
> I don't know who you are, or what your situation is. You might be in high school, or college, or you might have a full time job like me. Fanfiction might be an escape for you, or a way to explore things you'd never have a chance to try, or even a way of seeing the fictional worlds and people you love through the eyes of others who love them just as much. But whatever the case, thank you for reading this story -- this labor of love for our world, and the good it's capable of, as much as the Fire Emblem one. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you have a good evening, and a good week to come.


	13. Restless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With preparations complete and soldiers at the ready, the Shepherds and their Feroxi allies at last arrive in enemy territory. Faced with hostile conditions and enemy forces both, they struggle to make headway through the harsh desert sands that wear on body and mind alike...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Warnings: Mild Language, Blood, Violence**
> 
>   
>  The subtitle for this chapter should probably be _The Effects of Sleep Deprivation on the Human Mind,_ but that sounds like a research article and this is clearly not that.
> 
> One of the things I find fascinating about this game are the details thrown in that no one bothers to mention. Like Sumia's pegasus: where did it come from? It must have been a knight's beforehand because it was in full armor when they found it, but its rider is never mentioned at any point and its presence is never called out as unsettling or weird despite being all of these things. 
> 
> Probably my favorite detail, though, is in the map designs for the Border Sands, Plegia Castle Courtyard, and Midmire, along with the Plegia Castle banner sprite. It's never mentioned in the game, but those maps show something incredible from a bird's eye view...
> 
> More perspective shifts this chapter. Dashes (-) still indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

At dawn they loaded the wagons and set off, traveling along the northroad to avoid the likely dangers of the border pass. The fair weather that had persisted during their stay in Ylisstol clouded and turned as they marched toward Ferox, and by the time they made camp for the night a light snow had begun to fall. Not enough to hinder preparations, but a worrisome sign nonetheless: they would need to move quickly in the coming days if they intended to cross the border before more foul weather found them. 

Robin was surprised when he could not find the tent he’d come to expect anywhere in camp. He began to worry that perhaps it had been misplaced among the supplies -- and it would be his own fault, in that case, because he’d not taken the time to look for it--

“Robin!”

The tactician jumped at the sudden shout, turning to find Lissa storming toward him. The look on her face could have cowed a stronger man than him; Robin felt an icy fear shoot through him as the princess grabbed his arm and marched him across camp and into a large tent furnished with a small writing table.

“I’ve been looking all over for you!” Lissa huffed. “I figured you’d be here and then you weren’t and--”

“Why would I be here?” the tactician asked. 

“Because it’s your tent, silly!”

“What? No, my tent is--”

“My brother figured you’d need a desk if you’re going to be doing your tactical stuff, and you needed a bigger tent to fit a desk. Didn’t he tell you?”

If he had, Robin didn’t remember. But he’d been rather distracted of late. 

“Gods, it would figure,” she huffed. “But I need to talk to you -- why did you call Maribelle a conceited witless shrew?”

The tactician blinked. “I never called her that.” He’d called her a number of other things, but not that.

“Well -- well _whatever_ you called her, she’s really upset! Why were you so mean to her? She’s a really nice person, she didn’t deserve that!”

Robin mustered a weak smile. “I’m certain you’re right. But I’ve seen none of that good nature turned toward me, and she invited me to speak frankly.”

“Being _honest_ is different from being _mean!”_

The tactician leaned against the light table. “Did you come for an apology on Maribelle’s behalf?”

“No, I want you to go apologize to her yourself! I don’t want my friends to fight!”

“…you do know that Maribelle and I don’t need to like each other to be your friend, right?” At least, he hoped that wasn’t a prerequisite. 

“I know, but…but I really want you to get along. I know she’s…she has a really hard time making friends. But she’s really, _really_ nice if you give her a chance.”

“I don’t suppose she got a similar speech about me before you came here?”

Lissa went a bit pink. “W-well, she was saying some pretty mean things about you, too.”

He’d expected as much. “What she says about me is her business--”

“I’m not gonna let her talk about you that way! And I’m not gonna let you talk about _her_ that way!”

Robin smiled softly, bowing his head to the princess. “Rest assured, I’ll say nothing more about her.”

Lissa frowned as he removed the maps from his coat, unfolding the parchment and smoothing it on the surface of the writing desk. Likely he wouldn’t need the Ylisstol map -- just as well, the creases had begun to tear from overuse--

“You look tired.”

He glanced at the princess still standing by the tent flaps. “I’m alright.” He’d yet to cross the fine line between weary and exhausted that would let him sleep, at least--

“Do you want some tea?”

“I don’t know the first thing about tea.” 

“Well, you might like it if you try it. It’s really nice after a long day.”

“I should really start planning for--”

“Please?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He sincerely doubted the princess realized how transparent her proposal was. But the sooner they could put this matter to rest, the better. “Alright.”

Lissa’s face lit up. And before he could take a step, she bounced forward, grabbing his arm again and dragging him out of his tent and into another in the middle of camp.

“Lissa, darling! Where have you been? The tea’s been getting co--what is _he_ doing here!?”

Just as he’d expected. At least he wasn’t disappointed. 

“Get out this _instant,_ you cad! These are a lady’s quarters, how _dare_ you--”

“It’s okay, Maribelle!” the princess insisted, stepping between the troubadour and the tactician as Maribelle readied her parasol. “I invited him.”

“Darling, that’s _dreadfully_ improper,” the noblewoman whispered. “A strange man should _never_ see a lady’s bedchambers in such a manner.”

“…it’s just a tent,” Lissa replied. “And he’s not a strange man, he’s my friend! Aren’t there exceptions?”

“Absolutely _not!_ I’ll not have him here tarnishing your honor -- be gone at _once!”_

“Come on, Maribelle, can’t we just have a nice teatime together?” the princess pleaded. “All three of us? We can talk and--”

“We have _nothing_ to say to one another,” the noblewoman snapped. “Isn’t that right?”

“…not quite,” Robin murmured. 

“Must you always be so contrary--”

“I apologize for my behavior the other night.”

Silence met his shallow bow. “I was exhausted from the events of the day and my manners lapsed. My tone and choice of words were excessively harsh, and I would ask your forgiveness.”

“There, see? Told you he’s a good guy,” Lissa grinned, elbowing the troubadour gently.

Maribelle’s eyes narrowed. “I notice, _sir,_ that you do not apologize for the message, only its presentation.”

The tactician inclined his head. “That I will not rescind. I know little of the Ylissean nobility -- you, Lissa, and Chrom are the only members of the aristocracy I’ve met -- so perhaps your demeanor is expected of your station. But I don’t feel that friendships can flourish without a measure of equality. And your manner in our previous exchanges has made it clear that I am inferior in your esteem.”

“You see, I _knew_ he was nothing more than a wretch, demeaning my honor--”

“ _Enough!”_

The noblewoman subsided to silent fuming as the princess balled her apron in her hands. “I just wanted us to have a nice talk. Is that so hard?”

“Oh, Lissa, darling…” Maribelle pulled the princess into her arms, smoothing the cleric’s pigtails as her eyes began to water. “I’m sorry, my dear. If…if Robin would be willing, I would…I would be glad to have him join us for tea.”

“I have no objections,” the tactician agreed. 

Lissa sniffled, scrubbing her eyes with the lacy hem of her sleeve as she sat down in front of a china tea tray. Where the troubadour had pulled that from, Robin couldn’t begin to guess. Settling on the ground, he watched the noblewoman pour three steaming cups, handing the first to the princess and the second to the tactician before taking her own. 

No one spoke. He watched Lissa fidgeting out of the corner of his eye, curling his fingers around the teacup and letting the warmth seep into his hands.

“That’s not the proper way to take your tea,” Maribelle tutted.

“I’ve never had tea before,” Robin replied.

“You must hold your cup like so,” the noblewoman huffed, demonstrating with her pinky raised over the delicate handle while her other hand held the saucer. “Inexperience is no excuse for lacking manners.”  
As he drew a breath to speak, Lissa cut over the conversation. “So what do you dream about?”

The tactician didn’t have dreams so much as recurring nightmares. Likely not the answer she wanted. 

“Maribelle? We’ve talked about yours…”

“Lissa, dear, that’s private--”

“You said you wanted to be friends, right?” the princess insisted. “Friends share their dreams.”

The troubadour sighed, setting her teacup down and folding her hands in her lap. “I aspire to become the first lady magistrate in the court of Ylisse, and ensure that all are treated fairly and equally before the law, regardless of their station.”

Robin glanced up at the noblewoman, his eyebrows rising slightly. That was not the answer he would have expected from her. “A fine and admirable goal.”

“You find some fault in it?” Maribelle asked, unable to hide the defensive edge in her tone. 

“Not at all,” the tactician said. “But if you seek equal treatment for all in the courts, would you agree that a first step might be equal treatment for all in your daily life?”

“I _always_ seek to treat my fellow Shepherds with respect--”

“By calling them ‘baseborn’, ‘lowborn’, ‘commoner’…?”

“Robin…”

Lissa tugged on his sleeve. He sighed, replacing the cup in its saucer. “I mean no disrespect, Maribelle. Truly. But I do believe it’s something to consider.”

“…and your dream?” the noblewoman asked.

The tactician closed his eyes. “I dream of having a home.”

No reaction. Better than the laughter and disbelief he’d expected, at least. Opening his eyes, Robin took up his saucer, holding the handle of his teacup as gently as he could, and took a sip of the deep red brew. Bittersweet. But warm, and slightly citrusy. “This is nice.”

He caught the troubadour’s smile as he looked up. It vanished the instant she noticed his attention, but he was certain he’d seen it. Lissa’s grin seemed confirmation enough. 

“It’s said that the grander the aspiration, the grander the man, but yours seems a very…simple goal,” the noblewoman remarked carefully.

“It would seem so,” Robin murmured around the rim of his teacup. 

“Is it not?” the princess asked. 

The tactician stopped short, glancing between Lissa and Maribelle. That would be an uncomfortable enough question around the princess alone, but in the troubadour’s company…

…gods, he was still bound by that damnable oath, wasn’t he. “I’m beginning to think that pinky swear was just an elaborate form of entrapment,” he muttered. Lissa snorted into her tea. 

“Pinky swear -- darling, what have you--” 

The princess shushed her friend. “Soooo…? Come on, let’s hear it!”

Robin tried to rally his thoughts, feeling the silence stretch uncomfortably as he sipped his tea. But if he didn’t say something soon, Lissa would likely prompt him for it again. Setting his cup down, the tactician rubbed his Eyes -- and caught himself, folding his hands tight. He needed to stop doing that. 

“My dream is to have something I’ve never known. Something that might be impossible to find.”

“…it’s just a home. Even the most--” Maribelle stopped, took a breath, and started again. “It’s only a matter of securing adequate gold--”

“No,” the tactician sighed. “A house is not necessarily a home. A house can be a place of comfort and reassurance -- or it can feel unwelcoming and cold. A home is…it’s a place of relief. And safety.”

“Do you feel safe here with the Shepherds?”

Glancing toward the princess, Robin shook his head. “No. We’re marching into Plegia. None of us are safe.” Catching himself rubbing his Eyes again, the tactician stilled his hands. 

“Chrom promised we’d be okay, though,” Lissa insisted. “He’ll make sure we all come through.”

That did not reassure him. It left a sickening weight in the pit of his stomach, instead. No one could guarantee the safety of these men and women. Would their tactics be enough to keep everyone alive? What if they failed? Would it shake the Shepherds’ confidence in their captain if they did? After everything that had happened, could they endure another blow…?

The cup rattled in its saucer as he picked it up again, barely tasting the tea anymore. But worrying would not help anyone here. “And what about you, Lissa? What’s your dream?” he asked. 

The princess started. “Me?”

“Yes, dear,” the noblewoman agreed. “Aren’t we all sharing?”

“Oh.” Lissa fidgeted. Apparently she’d expected to mediate the conversation, not participate. “Uhm. W-well…right now my goal is to get you two to be friends.”

Robin glanced at Maribelle over the rim of his teacup. The noblewoman caught his eye, her brows rising slightly in silent question. “…perhaps you could join us for tea again sometime?” the troubadour offered. 

“…I would enjoy that,” the tactician murmured, bowing his head as Lissa’s face lit up. 

“Though next time we’ll need to find a proper place for it,” Maribelle remarked. “Heavens, Lissa, inviting a man into your tent, what would your brother think?”

“…I dunno, what _would_ he think?” the princess asked.

Likely not what the noblewoman imagined, all things considered. 

“It might be best if I beat a hasty retreat, then,” Robin chuckled. “Thank you for the invitation. Enjoy the rest of your tea. And rest well.”

“I better not catch you on watch duty again -- get some sleep tonight!” Lissa called after him as he slipped out into the camp. She made that sound so easy. 

Perhaps he had misjudged Maribelle. Lissa’s prodding had at least revealed a far more positive side of the noblewoman than he had seen before, or likely ever would have on his own. Quick judgments were more helpful on the battlefield or in a crowd of strangers -- they seemed more likely to betray him in the company of the Shepherds. 

Time would tell. But for now, he had more troubling thoughts to occupy his evening. 

Robin only hoped sleep would find him before dawn.

***

They made the crossing from Ylisse into Plegia without incident. Which was probably the only good thing Sumia could say about it. Even though the Feroxi wagons managed to ford the lake without too much difficulty, by nightfall they were mired in deep sand. Come morning, the captain and the khans decided to continue on foot, leaving a small group of Feroxi soldiers behind to get the wagons and the horses safely home.

Which was a shame. She’d liked those horses. 

But they didn’t have much choice, really. The Shepherds’ cavaliers already had a hard enough time getting through the desert, and Ylissean mounts were a lot lighter than the big draft horses the Feroxis used to haul their soldiers around. Sure, she would miss them, but she knew they’d be happier back home in the snow. 

It was still slow going, though, even without any Plegians trying to stop them. Looking down on them from above as she scouted the way ahead, Sumia watched as the armored and mounted soldiers gradually fell behind the rest of the troop while Ricken and Miriel managed to outpace everyone. It made everything seem backwards. And as the sun went down, all she could see ahead was sand, sand, and more sand. 

But they did manage to find a piece of rocky ground to make camp. After the nightmare of pitching tents in sand the night before, everybody seemed happy about that. While the Feroxis started unloading wood and supplies from their sleds, Sumia brought her pegasus down for a landing, hitching her with the rest of the Shepherds’ horses near the edge of camp. Ordinarily Sumia would groom her mount right away -- but as she headed off to join the long line for water, Robin waved and made his way over to her. “Good evening, Sumia. I hope you’re well?”

“I’m doing alright -- how are you?” she asked. 

“Oh, I’ve fared better,” he sighed, dusting sand out of his hair. “Have you seen the captain?”

“No, not since I landed. Do you need him?”

“If at all possible. This desert is more nuisance than I expected, I’d like to discuss some tactics for dealing with the travel delays…”

“Well, if I see him, I’ll let him know you’re looking,” she promised. 

“Thank you.” And then he headed off. Probably to keep looking. He looked pretty tired, too. It wouldn’t hurt to just take a quick peek around -- and it would definitely be more productive than standing around waiting for the line to move, since she could already see it winding through camp. 

So she headed off at random. Not the direction the tactician had come from or gone off to, but somewhere she hoped he hadn’t been yet. The camp set-up seemed a little different this time -- probably to keep from dealing with all the sand around their desert island -- but it wasn’t big enough to get too lost in--

And there he was. Heading from who-knows-where to who-knows-where else. But she’d found him! “Captain!” she called, hurrying up to his side. 

He turned to smile at her and her heart lit up. “Hello, Sumia. Did you need something?”

“Oh. Uhm. No,” she mumbled, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. “Actually, Robin was just looking for you. Something about wanting to talk about strategies for dealing with all this sand?”

Chrom sighed, brushing off his pauldron as they walked together. “I’m not surprised. Poor Robin does love to--”

For once it wasn’t Sumia who fell. “Chrom! Are you alright?” she asked, offering him a hand as he scrambled back to his feet. Somewhere under her panic and surprise, she had to admit that it was pretty nice not being the one on the ground for once. 

“Y-yes, I’m fine. I just tripped on a pebble,” he muttered, kicking it away. “Gods, how embarrassing.”

“It’s because you’re so exhausted,” the pegasus knight insisted. “You’ve been working too hard lately!”

“I’m fine, Sumia. And besides, we’re all tired. The marching, the fighting…it wears on everyone.”

“Chrom, you’ve no need to don a brave face for my sake,” she murmured. “You carry twice the burden of everyone else. It’s only natural that you’re exhausted.”

“You’re kind to say so,” he chuckled. “But…in truth, everyone looks to their commander for inspiration and strength. An army is only as stalwart as its leader. The instant I show weakness, we’re through.”

She hadn’t considered that. She’d only been thinking of all the planning and meetings he had at all hours -- gods, knowing all their hopes and fears rested on his shoulders, too… “It must be hard for you,” she said, touching his arm gently. 

“I’ll be fine,” he sighed, patting her hand. “And please, don’t speak of this conversation to anyone, alright?”

“N-no! Of course not! I would never--”

“At ease, Sumia,” he laughed. “And stop worrying so much! It’ll take more than a little sand to bring this soldier to his knees.”

“I know that! You’re the greatest warrior I’ve ever…” 

Oh. She might not want to say that. “I just realized something.” 

“What is it?”

“You trusted me with a secret! It’s our first secret together,” she giggled. She was sure he had lots of secrets with the other Shepherds, since they’d been together so long before she joined. But she doubted they were quite like this. 

“…yes, I suppose it is.” He smiled at her again, and her heart leapt. 

“Don’t worry Captain. My lips are sealed tighter than a bear trap… _if_ you promise to take a nap before meeting Robin,” she added, catching his arm as he started to turn.

“…what?”

“I’ll just tell him you’ve been delayed.”

“…and if I don’t agree to your terms?” he asked, trying not to smile now (but she was pretty sure she could see it peeking out).

“Then I’ll just have to tell everyone that the mighty Chrom was bested…by a mere pebble.”

“That sounds like blackmail,” he muttered. “…still, I suppose a short nap couldn’t hurt.”

As wide as her smile felt, Sumia thought her face might break from it. There wasn’t a lot she could do to help, but even this small thing felt monumental. Because it was for him. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Sweet dreams, Captain!” 

With a quick salute, the pegasus knight turned on her heel and hurried off through the maze of tents in search of the tactician’s. She used to know it, but she’d heard that it was changed when they left Ylisstol -- so she started looking for anything unfamiliar, in hopes that would point her in the right direction. It wouldn’t be the big tent for meetings with the khans…at least, she didn’t think so…and she recognized most of the other small tents that weren’t Feroxi…but there was one she didn’t, bigger than most but not as big as Chrom’s or Lissa’s. Maybe that one?

Well, it didn’t hurt to try. 

“Robin?” she called, poking her head inside. 

The tactician’s hands stilled as he glanced up at her. “Ah, hello again. Any luck?”

“I’m afraid he’s been delayed, but he’ll be by as soon as he’s able,” the pegasus knight reported. Which wasn’t really a _lie,_ was it?

Robin sighed, setting aside a few bits and bobs before reaching into his coat. “Oh, well. At least it gives me time to put more thought into solutions. By the way, I’ve been meaning to return this.”

The pegasus knight moved to accept the book he offered. “Oh! I’d forgotten all about it -- how was it?”

“It was actually quite interesting, and the encounter at high noon was…well, _epic._ I stayed up far too long reading it,” he chuckled. Which might explain why he looked so tired. 

“I’m so glad you liked it! I’ll have to bump it to the top of my pile.”

“So what are you reading now?”

“ _Ribald Tales of the Faith War._ ”

His brow furrowed slightly. “I’ve never heard of it. Is it a novel?”

“Yes! It’s roughly based on historical events, but all the characters are made up. And there’s lots of…well, ribald parts. But I suppose that’s obvious,” she mumbled, feeling her cheeks warm slightly. That might not be the best thing to talk about.

But the tactician didn’t seem to mind. He even smiled a little. “You don’t say. I do enjoy historical works -- perhaps I could borrow it when you’re finished? I’m afraid I don’t have any other books to keep me occupied.”

“Oh, of course! I brought more than I could possibly read -- probably more than I should have,” she admitted. But she hated being without a good book. “Do you like novels, Robin? Or are you more of a nonfiction type?”

“Novels are good,” he agreed. “Although I suppose I read a bit of everything.”

“Oh, I just _love_ a good novel,” Sumia sighed. “I get so caught up in them, I sometimes forget my own sad little life. I can pretend to be a knight in shining armor! Or maybe an evil mage.” 

The tactician smiled as she attempted her best evil laugh. Probably not too menacing, coming from her, though. “I know what you mean. I always feel a bit sad when a good story comes to an end.”

“Oh, I know…then it’s back to reality for Sumia! Back to sad, sad reality…” 

Oh. She hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He looked at her, and her cheeks warmed as she tried to think of something else to say. “B-but then I think about the next story and get excited all over again!”

“Does your life make you sad?”

She’d hoped he wouldn’t ask that. 

“…sometimes,” she mumbled. “I know I’m clumsy, and I know everybody makes fun of me for it. And I always seem to say and do the wrong things at the wrong times, and…and sometimes I need to get away from being _me._ So I read a book about somebody strong, and capable, and courageous, and…well, the opposite of who I am, I guess. And it helps me feel better, so I can keep going.”

“You’re too hard on yourself.”

She blinked. “W-what do you mean? I _know_ you’ve seen me--” 

“I have,” he agreed. “But I rode into battle with you once, remember? And I didn’t see a klutz there. I don’t think you can play pretend in the middle of combat, so that means the strong, capable, courageous knight I saw must have been the real you, too.”

Her face felt hot. “Y-you really think so?”

“I won’t deny that you can be clumsy, and sometimes you do and say things that are…a bit odd,” he admitted. “But I think that…it’s because you’re not focused. Not the way you are in battle, at least. When you ride your pegasus, the whole of your attention is on the task at hand. It’s often a matter of life and death. If you could concentrate the same way on the ground that you do in the air…”

Nobody had ever talked about her like that before. Not that she knew of, at least. And besides the captain, nobody had ever shown such confidence in her, either. 

Looking a bit sheepish, the tactician picked up a stone knife and a piece of wood from the table beside him. “I-I hope I didn’t offend you,” he mumbled, turning the block over in his palm a few times. 

“W-what? No! Oh, no, not at all! I…it actually makes me feel a lot better,” she admitted, curling a lock of hair around her finger again. “I’m so used to everybody thinking I’m a klutz that…knowing someone doesn’t means a lot.”

“I’m sure I’m not the only one,” he murmured. 

“Well, if anybody else thinks it, they don’t say it,” she sighed, leaning closer. “I didn’t know you carved.”

“It keeps me occupied when I don’t have a book,” he replied. 

“Well, I can at least fix that,” she giggled. “Let me go see what I have handy -- but I hope you finish that cute little pegasus!”

“You can tell what it is?”

“Of course I can! …that’s what it is, right?”

“If you say it’s a pegasus, I’ll believe it,” he chuckled. “Truth be told, I haven’t been sure what I was working on.”

Her laughter seemed to bring a smile to his face. “Well, now you know. Wait right here.”

As she retreated from his tent into the twilight, Sumia felt a new spring in her step. People really believed in her. Thought she could do more than bumble around the battlefield.

And she’d do everything she could to prove them right.

***

Robin did not sleep.

It was not for lack of trying. He lay in the dark with his eyes closed, tossing and turning in hopes of finding some position that would bring him peace…to no avail. Restlessness finally took hold, rousing him from his blankets to ponder over desert transports…and when he found progress as elusive as sleep, he turned to the novel Sumia had brought him over dinner. 

By dawn he’d finished more than half.

The sooner they left Plegia, the better. His nerves would not take much more of this strain. The _lack_ of enemy troops unsettled him nearly as much as seeing an army on the horizon: they could be in hiding, lying in wait for the Ylissean and Feroxi forces -- or they might have laid traps in anticipation of the military advance -- 

He needed to stop. Focus on the task at hand. 

They broke camp as the sun rose above the dunes. While the Feroxis packed and loaded the sledges for the march, Sumia and Cordelia spiraled up into the warming air to scout ahead. Hopefully they would find more than endless sand today…

Chrom fell into step beside him as they turned southward. “Did you sleep at all last night?”

“No.”

“You look it. You can’t keep on like that.”

“I’m aware.”

“Is it your fears keeping you awake?”

“And everything else,” Robin sighed. “The known, the unknown, the delays, the…”

“You can come to me, you know,” Chrom murmured. “If it would help.”

He wasn’t sure it would. But his usual escapes had proven useless. “I’ll consider it, Captain.”

The prince smiled sidelong at his tactician as they neared the ridge of a high dune. “You know, I’d like to believe it’s our cunning that got us this far without being spotted. But we’ve seen far too little of the Plegian Guard. Where are they?”

“I’ve been wondering much the same,” Robin admitted. “I fear something awaits us along this road.”

“Well, whatever trap Gangrel has planned, he is in no hurry to spring it,” Chrom muttered. 

Gods, that troubled him still more. The further they advanced into Plegia, the lower their chances of escape--

“Milord!”

The captain turned as Frederick struggled through the sand to join them. “Frederick? What is it?”

“Our scouts report some manner of engagement downfield,” the great knight panted. 

Well, apparently their run of good luck had come to an end.

“Understood,” Chrom said. “Get everyone ready. Robin, let’s discuss strategy.”

“Of course, Captain,” the tactician replied, watching Frederick retreat back down the hill as he and the prince reached the crest-- 

A golden sea spread out before them, the windblown waves shifting over years, rather than the blink of an eye. Great stones towered in the valleys, sheltering the villages that had grown around tiny green patches dotting the otherwise bare sand. And far in the distance, seeming little more than a mirage, a great swath of shimmering water and swaying trees. 

He’d never thought of Plegia as beautiful. It had always seemed so frightening in his mind -- and yet, standing atop the glittering dunes, he felt not terror, but awe. How could the land of his nightmares be so lovely?

“I see them.”

Chrom’s voice tore him from his reverie. Now was not the time to let his mind wander. Some distance away, near the base of the hill, a small girl hurried ahead of a large man, clearly trying to keep out of his reach. The prince wasted no time in moving to investigate--

They were not alone. 

Dark figures moved through the shadows of the dunes, invisible until they shifted. More worrisome still were the knights riding with little difficulty through the sand. They were in their element here. Which meant the Shepherds needed to take great care.

The pegasus knights settled in for an awkward landing as Robin moved to stand beside the captain. “Do you see all of them?”

“Unfortunately,” Chrom growled. “Why are you all after the girl!?”

“All?” The man at the foot of the dune paused, giving the child a chance to scrabble further away (only to slide back down to the bottom a moment later). “What is this ‘all’? Gregor is not one of ‘all’! Look close! Maybe you not see from so far? Gregor have innocent baby face!”

It felt like everyone leaned closer to judge the man’s rather cheeky smile. “Not sure ‘innocent baby’ is how I’d describe it,” the tactician muttered. 

“Never be minding!” the man groaned, flinging his hands up. “Gregor is not enemy! You must believe!”

“This is making my head hurt,” the captain grumbled. “We’ll sort him out later. Right now, we need to protect the girl.”

“Y-you’re going to help me?” the child asked, stopping just a second too long and sliding back through the sand. 

“We’ll do everything in our power to keep you safe,” the prince called. “Just hold on until we can reach you, and we’ll drive them off!”

Easily said. Perhaps not so easily done, as Gregor picked the girl up and hurried away from the fast approaching fighters. And worse yet, the Plegian mounts -- while still slowed by the loose ground -- made far swifter progress than most of their soldiers could hope to make. His head spun -- they were outmanned, outpaced, their options dwindling even as the odds mounted--

“We need to warn those villages of the danger,” Chrom said. “Who do we send? Best if it’s someone who can move swiftly through the sands, but…”

Calm. He needed calm. There was a way through this. He only needed to seek it out.

“The pegasus knights,” Robin replied. “Captain, go with Sumia and warn the western village, north of the oasis. Cordelia, take Virion and warn the closest town, then go along the line of dunes to the southern one. If all goes well you’ll be able to flank the enemy in the process. The Feroxis can follow your lead, assist as needed, while the rest of us rally to the aid of the girl.”

The Shepherds did not hesitate. Sumia helped the prince up onto her pegasus and they took flight, soaring out over the crests of the dunes and toward the tiny green haven among the golden sand. The other soldiers began to move, sliding down the great hills, lost in shadow or glittering in the light as they advanced in all directions…

…and after a final moment spent staring out over his mother’s homeland, Robin followed the Feroxi soldiers along the crest of the dune and slipped into the dark. 

Chaos met him at the foot of the hill. Nothing in his life could have prepared him for this first battlefield. Feroxis, Plegians, Shepherds, weapons flashing in the light of cast spells, screams ringing in his ears, a confusion of movement and noise where he could not tell friend or foe. 

He had to get out. Find a better vantage, strike from where he could see, or else risk hurting an ally rather than an enemy. Lunging out of the way as a Plegian cavalier raced by, he scrambled for the stones jutting from the desert floor -- if he could get there, somewhere defensible, he could help--

Something roared behind him. 

The tactician turned to see a dragon rise above the battlefield, delicate wings shimmering in rainbow colors as sunlight touched them. Not a wyvern -- no, its shape was wrong, its color, the lightness of its movements as it breathed blue-white fire across the sand -- no, not fire, _ice,_ so cold it burned -- 

“Manakete.”

He’d never seen one. Never dreamed he would. The writings in myths, in books, were all he knew of them, but there could be no mistaking -- and as suddenly as it appeared, the great form was gone, replaced by the small girl they’d seen fighting her way up the dune. Clearly she did not need as much help as they’d expected--

A spear tore through his side.

Pain screamed through his senses as he fell, skidding through the sand to the base of the rocks. Fighting to regain his feet, he heard armor clanking, the song of steel drawn from sheaths. Too many -- gods, too many, he couldn’t hope to fight them all -- snatching the tome from his coat, he turned to face the half-dozen Plegian knights advancing toward him, their faces obscured beneath their helms but their intentions all too clear from the ring they formed around him, pushing him back, trapping him against the stones--

Movement. 

Something darted through their ranks, felling one man with a swift blow. Robin did not waste the opportunity, casting a bolt that coursed along another’s lance and through his plate. The bright circles blazed as he threw another spell at the knight charging toward him, avoiding the next only by chance as the low, lithe figure skewed the lancer’s aim with a swift blow to the knee. 

As lightning crackled through another cavalier’s plate, something rammed into him, knocking him to the ground an instant before a sword sliced through the space his throat had been. 

Fear took hold. The next bolt tore a jagged hole through the soldier’s stomach; the overwhelming stench of burnt flesh and white hot metal made him retch violently, though nothing came of it. Scrambling away from the body, the tactician fought to catch his breath, clear his lungs, recover his senses before the next attack--

“It is done.”

He flinched back, turning toward the voice--

A giant rabbit padded toward him through the sand, ears low against its back to keep out the blowing dust. A few scraps of foxglove-colored armor clung to the creature’s chest and limbs -- familiar, where did he recognize it from--

Its shape changed. Gradually, but unmistakably. Fur receding, shortening, dark hair taking its place as the face morphed from animal to something human. He’d read about this once. Beast-wearers. Shapeshifters. Taguel. 

“Panne,” he whispered as she offered her hand to him. “Thank you. I owe you my life.”

“Do not speak of it, man-spawn,” she replied, pulling him to his feet. “I did not come to your aid for gratitude, but so that we both might live through this.”

“…even still. I thank you,” he murmured.

“A better thanks would be your help in navigating this waste.”

Well, he had to admire that sort of practicality. 

“So be it. For now, then, we may want to take cover.”

“Why? Would it not be wisest to press on to the edge of this desert?”

“I’m injured,” he sighed. “Progress will be slow at best, and the day will only get hotter. It puts us both at risk.”

Panne’s eyes narrowed as he drew his coat back, revealing the red stain spreading across his pale tunic. “You are sensible, man-spawn.”

“High praise,” he chuckled. “We should find shade. Somewhere to last out the heat of the day. Somewhere defensible.”

“Follow me.”

The taguel moved past him, slipping into the cleft between two boulders. He watched, pressing a hand to the wound in his side, as she struggled against the sand, fighting her way up the incline while the grains slipped beneath her feet--

“Here.”

She slid out of sight, seemingly into the stone itself. Following in her tracks, Robin struggled to make headway -- until the taguel returned, offering her hand to him again and pulling him into a tunnel large enough to crawl through. Leaning back against the curved wall, the tactician struggled with his shirt, fumbling through his coat pockets for the vulnerary he had stashed for such an emergency--

He froze as Panne curled beside him and began to lick the wound. “What are you doing?”

“It must be cleaned to heal,” the taguel replied, perfectly matter-of-fact as she continued to groom him. 

“Is. Is that a taguel custom?” Gods, this was deeply uncomfortable.

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

“N-no.”

“You lie poorly, man-spawn.”

Well, it had been worth a try. “I’m…unaccustomed to being treated. Like this. By others.”

“I make you uncomfortable?”

“Most people make me uncomfortable.”

“It is not that I am taguel?”

“No! Gods, no -- I’ve been meaning to ask you about…w-well, a great many things. All I know about the taguel is what I’ve read in books, and those mentions are at best brief.”

“Then ask.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course not. You would doubt me?”

“N-no, I just…I thought you might not take kindly to me asking about your people. I know that…it was humans like me who killed them.”

“Humans like you, yes,” Panne agreed. “But not you. You do not bear the blame for what was done, so do not bear the guilt. Guilt creates distance. If you would learn of my people, cast it aside.”

“…alright,” Robin murmured. “Thank you.”

The taguel smiled, settling comfortably to rest beside him. “At last you are calm. Your heart has slowed.”

“You can hear my heartbeat?”

“Lesson one -- taguel have strong ears. A heart’s beat always betrays its owner.”

…he would need to keep that close in mind. “Is your sense of smell as keen as your hearing?” he asked.

“Not as much. But keener than a man’s nose. One taguel could determine another’s health with a sniff.”

“Gods, most healers can’t even tell that after a thorough examination,” Robin muttered. “…our world is poorer for the loss of your people.”

“…if more men tried to learn of the taguel and their ways, not all would be lost,” Panne murmured. “Though few care to ask.”

“Well…perhaps, once this war has ended…I could help you to record the ways of the taguel. Their customs and traditions, their remedies and teachings…they would be preserved for everyone to read and learn.”

“Why would you do this?” she asked, her eyes narrowed. 

“Because I wish to know more of your people,” he replied. “And I find that there is great wisdom in writings from the past. Of people long gone, but not forgotten. It would be my honor to help keep your wisdom -- the wisdom of the taguel -- from being forever lost.”

Panne’s expression eased into a smile. “You are a strange man. But not an unpleasant one.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Robin chuckled. “I’m glad we were able to speak. It’s fortunate you found this tunnel in the rock--”

“Not fortune. And not rock.”

The tactician frowned, looking up and down the bore. “What do you mean--”

“This is bone.”

Robin’s heart stopped.

Why hadn’t he realized? The circular passage, the smooth walls, the line of stones trailing through the sands beyond--

Panne tensed, darting to the nearest opening. “Are there enemies?” she snapped. “What do you sense, that your heart races--”

“This is but a small piece,” he whispered. “Gods, she must have been immense…”

“The beast that left these bones? Yes. But it is long dead, whatever it was. I would not want to meet one alive.”

“I pray you never do,” Robin breathed. He prayed no one ever would.

“Calm yourself,” Panne murmured, moving back to his side. “There are no enemies here, and no great beasts. We are safe for now.”

As his thoughts calmed, he realized that the taguel was right. If the skeleton were the means of Grima’s awakening, something should have happened already. Instead her bones offered them a momentary refuge, out of sight of their enemies and sheltered from the elements. 

He prayed the rest of the troops fared well in their fight while he could not guide them. And he thanked Grima for her protection, even in death.

***

The sun had already set, and still no sign of Robin.

Chrom was very near his wits’ end. Gods, what had happened out there? The appearance of so many Plegians had thrown everything into chaos, but all of the Feroxis were accounted for even though they’d scattered just as far as the Shepherds. Even Raimi in her massive plate had made it to the oasis before twilight, accompanied by the east khan who seemed cheerful in spite of the dried blood caking her armor (which she proudly declared was not hers).

He knew the enemy forces were Grimleal. Lissa had told him she’d seen the Eyes on a handful of the fallen sorcerers. Which just made him more nervous. What if the tactician had been captured? The enemy had been after that manakete, but the six Eyes would be a better prize if they found him out…

He couldn’t face the thought that Robin might be dead. The oath he’d sworn had been hard enough, and he still wasn’t sure he had the strength to follow through, if it came to that -- but losing him like this, with no way of knowing whether he’d died on the battlefield or still lived, waiting for rescue…that was far, far worse.

There was no possible way they could search the whole of the desert. And delaying their march to search for one missing soldier would likely not go over well with the khans (or Frederick, but he at least outranked the great knight). Gods, what could he do--

“Hey, Captain! Look what the wyvern dragged in.”

Chrom was on his feet in an instant, striding toward Sully as she and Stahl reined in their mounts. Not two, but four figures slid down to the ground. Well, three slid. The last Sully practically lifted off the back of her horse.

“You really don’t need to--”

“Shut up, you ninny. Gods, and I thought you looked like shit in the dark.”

Thank the gods.

“Where did you find them?” he asked as Panne moved to crouch at the water’s edge.

“Out by the edge of the oasis,” Stahl replied. “I’m not entirely sure how they made it. Panne hasn’t said much, and…well…”

“This one can barely even stand,” Sully finished. And given that Robin hadn’t shrugged her hand off his arm, Chrom was inclined to believe it. “I’m gonna drag his ass to the infirmary, so if you’ll excuse us, Captain--”

“I’ll do it,” the prince said. “You and Stahl should get some rest.”

“You sure?”

“Completely.”

Chrom took hold of the tactician’s arm, and the cavalier reluctantly released him. “Don’t let him skip out of it,” she muttered. 

“I won’t.” 

It took a gentle tug to get Robin moving in the right direction. And even then, a pronounced limp slowed the tactician’s progress as they made their way through the lines of tents. “What happened out there?” the prince asked.

“I have no godsdamn idea,” the tactician replied. “All I know is that I saw a manakete, took a lance to the side, and spent the better part of the day talking to a taguel while we waited for nightfall. It was too risky to move before that. How was your day, Captain?”

“More or less fine, until we got here and had no tactician,” Chrom replied. “I’ve been going mad waiting for you to turn up.”

“I apologize for worrying you,” the tactician mumbled.

“You can make it up to me by letting the healers take a look at you.”

“…agreed.”

“Good.” Pulling back the flap of the tent before them, the captain poked his head inside. “One more for you!”

“Oh, gods damn -- now what have I got to deal with?” A Feroxi woman bustled over as Chrom pushed Robin inside. “For fuck’s sake, what fresh hell did you crawl out of?”

The prince did not stay to hear the answer. Instead he made his way to the cooking fires, collecting a decent meal from the remnants of the camp’s supper, including (by some miracle) a crowberry tart that no one had yet claimed. As an afterthought, he pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and wetted it in one of the newly refilled water barrels, folding it at the edge of the tray. After a long day in the heat, that might help the tactician’s mood a bit. Turning back toward the infirmary--

“Hey, Blue! It true Bubbles is back?”

Chrom glanced at Gaius as the thief wandered over, eyeing the tray. “Bubbles?”

“You know, mister cheerful. The tactician.”

 _Cheerful_ was not a word the prince would use to describe Robin. “Yes. He just got back--”

“That for him?”

“Well, he wasn’t around when the rest of camp ate, so--”

“Good, just making sure. Hey, can you give him a message for me? Tell him Ruffles looks like his bow hand got a sprain or something, a couple Feroxis skipped the infirmary that probably needed it, and a bunch of knights passed out without dinner -- dunno if it was the heat or what, but--”

“What are you talking about?” Chrom asked. 

“Eh, don’t worry about it,” the thief chuckled. “Just tell him to find me in the morning.”

Chrom watched as Gaius moved into the dark, trying to figure out what any of that had meant. Sprained hands and knights? Was it code? Hopefully Robin would know, since the message was for him. 

When he got to the infirmary, though, the tactician was nowhere to be seen. Sully had warned him. Making his way through the camp, the captain poked his head into the dark tent, wishing he’d thought to bring a lamp along. “Robin?”

The prince wasn’t as surprised as he should have been to find the tactician sprawled in the chair by his writing desk. “Shouldn’t you still be in the infirmary?” he asked, placing the tray on the table. 

“I have work to do,” Robin mumbled. 

“I can tell,” Chrom chuckled, draping the cold cloth over the tactician’s eyes. “You’re doing an excellent job of getting it done.”

No response. Not that the captain had expected one. “You should try to eat something.”

Robin stirred enough to lift one corner of the handkerchief, glancing at the meal before replacing it. “Did Gaius give you a message for me?”

“Oh. Right. He said…something about a sprained bowhand and knights passing out? I think? How did you know?”

“I had a hunch,” the tactician sighed. The prince took another look at the tray--

“Did he steal your dessert?” Chrom was certain there had been a crowberry tart there when he started--

“No, I owe him.”

“Did you lose a bet?”

“Not exactly.”

Well, that didn’t clear things up. 

“I take it you fared well? Did you manage to meet that manakete?”

“You’re avoiding the subject,” Chrom noted. “…but yes, we did. She was being hunted by the Grimleal, and that mercenary was trying to protect her.”

“Hunted by Grimleal?” Robin repeated. “Why?”

“How should I know? You’re the Grimleal, I should be asking you that question.”

“Wrong kind of Grimleal,” the tactician muttered. 

“I know,” the prince chuckled. “Come on, eat your supper.”

Robin peeked at it again, but still made no move to comply. “If you tell me you already ate I’ll call you a liar,” Chrom said. 

“I wouldn’t tell you such a bold lie,” the tactician murmured. 

“Just a slightly more discreet one?” Not that he expected Robin to mislead him. “What’s wrong?”

“…I don’t feel well.”

“You did just spend the day lost in the desert--”

“Did you see the bones?”

He nearly missed those words, spoken barely above a whisper. “The ones by the oasis?”

“No. No, the ones by the tall dunes.”

“I remember the dunes,” Chrom agreed. “And Miriel was saying something about wind carving rocks, which sounds ridiculous--”

“They weren’t rocks. I didn’t even realize until Panne…they were bones. The bones of something great and terrible.”

“…what would leave a corpse like that?” the prince asked. 

“Grima.”

The tactician pressed the cloth tighter against his face. “They were immense. Big enough to crawl through. And those were -- those were just a small piece of her. A few bones from her tail. Gods, she must have filled the sky…”

“…are you sure you weren’t just imagining it?” Chrom asked gently. “You’ve had a long day. You’re hurt, you’re exhausted, it could have been nothing--”

“Gods, I hope it was,” Robin breathed. “I hope Miriel is right, that it was just the wind, but…but what if it’s not? What if --”

“Calm down.”

The tactician fell silent as the prince smoothed his hair. “You’ve done enough worrying for one day. And so have I. So eat your godsdamn supper so I can stop.”

Robin mustered a weak smile, forcing himself up in his chair to poke at the meal. Better than rations, if only slightly: a bit of fresh bread, some stewed meat and vegetables, and a few radishes that had somehow survived the prior week of travel, lost in a dark corner of a supply crate. The tactician picked at it, which just gave Chrom more reasons for concern, given how Robin usually ate. 

“You don’t need to watch, you know,” the tactician mumbled, chewing over one of the radishes. At least they weren’t going to waste. 

“Would you be eating if I wasn’t?”

Silence. “Exactly.”

“I think I’d rather sleep than eat.”

“…you can, you know,” the prince said. He’d been starting to think Robin never slept at all. 

“But I still have work to--”

“Oh, gods damn it all--”

Taking hold of the tactician’s arm, Chrom pulled Robin to his feet, turned, and marched him over to his bedroll. “You are _not_ working tonight.”

“But--”

“No.”

“…do you intend to enforce that?”

The prince’s eyebrows went up. “What if I do?”

“Gods help me,” the tactician muttered, burying his face in his hands. 

Chrom laughed as Robin sat down among the blankets, curling into himself -- or trying to, at least. He stopped, his breath hissing as he pressed a hand to his side. “You _did_ let the healers examine you, right?” the prince asked, kneeling down beside him.

“Yes,” the tactician agreed, unfolding to sprawl across the cushions. “It wasn’t serious--”

“You got it _treated,_ didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. She’s the one who said it wasn’t that serious, and that I was lucky--”

“Show me.”

“What!?”

“You heard me,” Chrom repeated as Robin wrapped his arms around his chest. “Let me see it.”

“You’re not a priest, what good would it do--”

“Please.”

The tactician quieted, looking down at his sleeve. “…why?”

“Because I’m worried about you,” the captain murmured. “If it wasn’t serious, you shouldn’t be in so much pain. I can at least send you to Lissa if it’s something she can help patch up.”

“…Libra already took a look at it,” Robin sighed, unbuckling his belt before drawing his knit shirt up. He still bore a faint scar from the assassin’s blade in the gardens…and now, across from it, a new mark, livid pink and seeming to glisten in the low light from the fires outside. It felt dry when Chrom touched it with his fingertips -- but even that snared the tactician’s breath in his throat. “I thought you said you were lucky,” the prince murmured.

“I was,” Robin mumbled. “I could have been lamed instead. Or disabled.”

“This doesn’t seem lucky.”

“I’m alive. That seems lucky enough to me.”

Chrom shot him a wry look. The tactician missed it entirely, lying with his eyes closed among the blankets. 

Leaning close, the prince’s lips grazed the edge of Robin’s fresh scar. In an instant the tactician struggled upright, his face nearly ember red. “What are you--”

“Easy,” Chrom murmured. “You’ll re-open it if you’re not careful.”

“Then why did you do that?” Robin demanded. 

“Because you’ve had a stressful day? Affection seemed like the best cure for that -- was I wrong?”

The tactician pressed his hands to his face. “I don’t…I don’t know. I’m not used to… _any_ of this. I don’t know how to react or what to say or do or--”

“Well, you should probably start by settling down,” the prince chuckled, sprawling out among the increasingly rumpled blankets and slipping an arm behind Robin’s back. The tactician hesitated, ruffling his already unruly hair…but before Chrom could pull him down, Robin settled back, nestling in against the captain’s chest. “Like that,” the prince agreed, curling his arms around the tactician. “Is that so bad?”

Robin shook his head. “It’s still strange. Like it might not be real.”

“…is affection really that novel?”

“I’ve been on my own since I was ten,” the tactician mumbled. “And I spent the last decade avoiding any kind of prolonged contact. Affection is more like a Valmese scroll than an Ylissean spellbook.” Chrom gave him a blank look. “Completely foreign, not just a rarity.”

“I’ve never heard that saying.”

“They like it in East Ferox.”

“Somehow I’m not surprised,” the prince chuckled. “…is this something you want to get used to?”

Silence. 

Part of him hoped that Robin had fallen asleep. Even if it left Chrom without an answer, at least it meant the tactician was finally resting. “Robin?”

“There are two answers to that, and I don’t know which is right.”

Chrom’s chest tightened. 

“What are they, then?” he asked, hoping his voice sounded steadier than he felt.

“The first is no. I shouldn’t, because the more familiar it becomes, the harder it will be to leave it should something happen. And every moment I spend in Plegia, the chances of something happening are…frighteningly high. It’s safer -- for you, for the Shepherds, for _everyone_ \-- if…if this stops.”

“…and the other?”

“…the other is yes. There is nothing I have ever wanted more. Even safety -- safety is part of survival, but this…this is beyond that. This is a fantasy I never dared entertain, because I never…I never thought it attainable. And now that it’s here, I don’t know what to do.”

The captain tightened his embrace, pulling the tactician closer against him. “Which answer do you want, then?” he whispered. 

“I should choose--”

“Not should. What do you _want_ to choose?”

Robin shivered, hiding his face against Chrom’s shoulder. “I want to know this,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t, I _can’t,_ but I _want--_ ”

“Then be selfish for once in your life,” the prince murmured. “You spend so much time worrying about the world, and about us -- worry about yourself, for once. For your own sake.” 

Everything went still.

And then the tactician moved, curling his arm over Chrom’s chest and touching a hesitant kiss to his lips. 

The prince returned it. Not in force, but with care, lingering far longer than necessary. But he didn’t want to break away as that touch spread such comforting warmth through him…

Robin pulled back first, his head settling back against Chrom’s shoulder. “…so how does it feel to be selfish?” the prince chuckled, resting his cheek against the tactician’s hair. 

“…better than it likely should.”

Chrom smiled. “Or maybe it’s meant to feel that way, and you should indulge more often.”

“My opinion might change after I’ve had some decent rest.”

“That might be your best idea all day.”

Robin’s arm tensed around the prince. “Will you be leaving?”

“…not until you go to sleep.”

“That’s a tall order,” the tactician murmured, nestling closer. 

“I’m sure you can manage,” Chrom replied, pulling a blanket over the both of them. “…get some rest. You’ve more than earned it.”

Silence settled over them. And as warmth overtook the chill of the desert night, sleep followed close behind.


	14. Grima's Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long struggle against the waning daylight and the seemingly endless desert, the Shepherds arrive in the heart of Plegia and begin their assault. But none are prepared for the trap that Gangrel has laid for them in the courtyard of Plegia's castle...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: Explicit Sex, Language, Violence, Gore**  
> 
> 
>   
> **There is more sex in this chapter.** Again, it's not really graphic or extreme, but it is present. If you don't feel comfortable reading it, don't worry! It's not for everyone. It's in the middle of the chapter, so once you finish the second scene just skip to the next perspective shift (***) and you should be good to read on from there.
> 
> Hopefully the next chapter won't be so delayed, either. I spent the beginning of the month moving, but now that things are getting more settled I'll be back on track.
> 
> More perspective shifts this chapter. Dashes (-) still indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

Robin woke hours before dawn, still tucked within Chrom’s embrace. He could barely remember the last time he’d slept so long, or so well. And a part of him selfishly wanted to linger there, warm and secure, as long as he could. 

But his restless mind, once roused, would not be settled. Withdrawing grudgingly to the chill beyond the blankets, the tactician took the lamp from his writing table and slipped out into the dark camp, lighting the wick on a glowing torch before returning to his tent to pore over his maps. 

Either his timing was miraculous or the light drew more attention than he’d intended. Whatever the case, within minutes of settling to his work, the clank of heavy armor approached and stopped just outside. “Robin? Are you awake?”

“Yes,” he called, laying his quill aside. Still favoring his injured side, the tactician turned as Frederick moved into the tent, his brow knit over a troubled frown. 

“I apologize for interrupting your work, but have you seen Prince Chrom? He’s not in his tent, and it looks as though he’s not been there all night…”

Robin glanced at the blankets piled in the far corner of the tent. The great knight followed his gaze to where the captain lay sleeping, his frown deepening. “And what, pray tell, is he doing here?”

“He began dozing off as we discussed plans for tomorrow. I encouraged him to sleep here rather than risk being waylaid on the way back to his tent,” the tactician shrugged. “He needed the rest.”

“As do we all,” Frederick agreed. “I appreciate your concern for milord’s welfare, but I hope you understand that this could be misconstrued. Quite easily, in fact.”

“I understand. But as our commander, his rest should be the top priority. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He could see the great knight searching for some fault in that logic, his eyes narrowing as Robin met his gaze. But after a moment, Frederick sighed and relented. “Might I at least recommend that you rest, as well? I’ll fetch some extra blankets for you, since it appears milord has claimed yours.”

“…thank you,” the tactician murmured. “That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s a matter of practicality,” the great knight replied. “Our forces are at risk when you go without sleep. It’s to our benefit that you rest.”

Robin felt a wry smile twitch across his face. “Your honesty is much appreciated.” 

As Frederick retreated out of earshot, the tactician sat back, pressing his hand to his face. “That’s a conversation I would have preferred to avoid.”

“At least he’s gone.”

He glanced over at the blankets as Chrom sat up. “Did you sleep well?”

“I did. Did you sleep at all?”

Robin smiled sidelong at him. “What do you think?”

“The answer had better be yes or I’m dragging you back down here.”

“You might want to wait until Frederick leaves again,” the tactician remarked. “You also might want to play dead, if you intend to stay.”

Chrom cast a distrustful glance toward the tent flaps before wrapping himself in the blanket. “You’re coming back to bed as soon as he’s gone,” he muttered. 

“Is that an order, Captain?”

The prince made a very rude gesture as he settled back to feign sleep. Smiling to himself, Robin resumed his sketching, committing the great bones in the sand and the scattered villages to ink on parchment. He prayed he would not need these maps again, but if he did…the more accurate, the better. 

Frederick returned some minutes later, a pair of blankets folded over his arm. “Do try to sleep before dawn,” he said, passing them to the tactician. 

“I will,” Robin agreed. With a curt nod, the great knight retreated, the clanking of his armor fading into silence as the tactician blew out his lamp. 

“Are you coming back?”

“Well, Frederick seems to believe I should be taking the other corner,” Robin murmured, holding his side as he rose to his feet. 

“What Frederick doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Or you.”

The tactician smiled, sitting carefully as the prince propped himself up. “Or you, I wager.”

“Exactly,” Chrom agreed, pulling Robin down and bundling them both within the blankets. “Now why don’t you try getting some sleep?”

“I’ll make an attempt.”

“…that doesn’t sound encouraging,” the captain mumbled. The tactician shrugged as Chrom nestled closer, tentatively draping his arm over the prince’s chest as he closed his eyes to sleep. 

…or, more accurately, to lay awake in the dark, listening to the sounds beyond the tent. The wind singing over the bluff, the distant snores of other soldiers, his own breath and Chrom’s, the soft patter of sand across the canvas, a faint scratching on the stones as something moved -- something small, perhaps an animal of some kind…

And then came the thoughts, creeping back unbidden even as he tried to quiet them. How far were they from the Plegian capital now? How many more battles would they face before arriving? What traps had been set for them on the road ahead? Did the Grimleal know he had joined the Shepherds on this campaign? Would they be waiting for him in force further down this path? Would they try to take him? What would they need to do to awaken Grima? Was it a ritual? A spell? Did it have to occur in a particular place? Could it be done at any time, or was it only possible on a certain--

“Are you asleep yet?” the captain murmured.

“No.”

“Why not?” Robin shrugged. “…are your fears keeping you awake?” 

After a moment’s thought, the tactician nodded. “Would talking about them help?” Chrom asked. 

“…I don’t know,” Robin admitted. “I’ve…never had anyone to voice them to.”

“You have me now.”

The tactician smiled at that. For a moment, at least. And then he sighed, trying to marshal his thoughts out of the swirling mass of anxiety and into something rational. 

“…this place unsettles me. I was…I was born here, but I never knew it except as a place to avoid. It’s dangerous here -- it’s dangerous for all of us, I don’t mean to imply that…it’s just a different sort of danger for me. I don’t know how Grima would be awakened, what has to be done or where, or even if there _are_ constraints on it -- I suppose there have to be some, since I’m still…well, _myself,_ but…I don’t know what they are, or if they become ineffective within Plegia’s borders, or…”

He stopped the flood of words before they could get much further ahead of his mind. So much for voicing his fears to put them to rest -- hearing them only made him feel foolish, and did nothing to set his mind at ease.

But the prince only drew Robin closer. “Here I thought you were exaggerating when you said those fears were always there.”

“I wish,” the tactician muttered. 

“Why would you want to live that way?”

“No one _wants_ to live this way,” Robin sighed. “But it’s the reason I’ve survived this long.”

“It’s also the reason you’re drawn tighter than a bowstring.”

A wry smile twitched across the tactician’s face. “True.”

Chrom pressed a kiss to Robin’s forehead. “You should try to relax,” the prince breathed, coiling his arms around the tactician--

Robin bit back a gasp as pain lanced through his side. The captain flinched back as the tactician curled inward, fighting to steady his breath. “Gods, I’m sorry--”

“I-it’s alright,” Robin mumbled, pressing a hand to the wound. Warm, but not the sort that stuck to his fingers -- at least it hadn’t torn open. “Just a twinge.”

“…I’m sorry. I wasn’t there for you today, I could have…”

The tactician smiled, resting his head gently against Chrom’s shoulder. “You had more important things to do. Remember, I’m the one that recommended you go.”

“I could have refused.”

“I knew you wouldn’t. You’re not the sort to leave people in danger.”

The prince snorted, but did not argue. “…do you think those villagers we warned were Grimleal, too?”

“More than likely.” He hadn’t seen them, but given how far they’d traveled within Plegia’s borders…

“…it seems like they’ve been having trouble with the Grimleal we fought today.”

“The destroyers have little love for the renewers. And odds are good we fought the destroyers today.”

“What makes you say that?”

“There are…they both grow from the same roots, but you would hardly realize to look at them now. I can’t speak much for the destroyers, but most renewers do not rush to violence. They’ll defend themselves if attacked, but most will try to escape instead, and few will instigate a fight. Life is Grima’s gift, and it’s an insult to squander something so precious. The destroyers…my mother never said much about them. But from what she did tell me, they believe that every life they take in Grima’s name feeds the fell dragon, strengthening her in preparation for her return -- and every Grimleal who falls in her service becomes a part of her.”

“…well, that explains what that sorcerer said before he died,” the prince muttered. 

“What did he say?”

“Something about his life force being Grima’s.”

“That certainly sounds like destroyer rhetoric.”

Silence settled over them, and Robin closed his eyes in hopes that sleep might return. Not that he had high hopes--

“Have you ever wondered if you might be wrong? About what Grima is, or does, or…?”

“Since when have you been a philosopher?”

“I was just curious,” Chrom protested. “I wasn’t sure if Grimleal ever questioned their faith the way that Naga’s followers sometimes do.”

“Have you ever had doubts?”

“You still can’t answer a question with a question,” the prince grumbled. “…but after Emmeryn, I…it shook me. Why would any merciful divine let the light of peace be extinguished like that? It didn’t seem _right._ …it still doesn’t.”

“Fate is strange,” the tactician offered. “Perhaps a brighter light will fill the dark she left behind.”

“…I hope so,” Chrom murmured. “So have you ever had doubts?”

“…it’s crossed my mind,” he admitted. “More often after leaving Ferox, but--”

“Really? Why?”

“Feroxis don’t care about your religion,” the tactician shrugged. “You’re judged by the size of your family group and your physical ability, not by your creed. Ylisse…Ylisseans care very much about faith. And if you do not follow Naga, you are…”

“…a heathen?”

“Or a heretic, or an infidel.”

“…have you been called those things?”

“On occasion.”

“In Ylisse?”

Robin nodded. “Ylisseans and Plegians have a long history. The followers of Naga distrust, even despise the Grimleal for praising the fell dragon as their divine, even after her defeat. …as a child I knew that I was Grima’s vessel, and that there were those in the world who would use that power for evil purposes. I never thought…I never thought that the power itself might be evil -- I never thought _I_ might be evil -- until I came to Ylisse.”

“You’re not evil,” Chrom said. 

“According to Naga’s followers I am. Grima is evil, Grima is the fell dragon, the destroyer, _the wings of despair,_ and I bear the heart of Grima -- by all accounts I _am_ Grima, so--”

“You’re not evil,” the prince repeated. “How can they believe that? They don’t know anything about you.”

“That doesn’t matter to them. I’m Grimleal. That’s all they feel they need to know”

“But--”

“If I’d told you from the outset what I am, would you have given me a chance?”

Chrom’s voice guttered out. 

“The truth is what we make of it,” Robin murmured. “Faith is much the same. Ylisseans hold that the Grimleal are evil, and no matter how good I might try to be, there are people who will only see me as a Plegian heretic.”

“…I don’t.”

The ghost of a smile twitched across the tactician’s face. “You don’t,” he agreed. 

“So who’s more trustworthy: the world that doesn’t know you, or the man who does?”

“…the one who does,” Robin ventured warily.

“Exactly,” Chrom chuckled, tucking the blankets closer around them to stave off the night’s chill. “So trust me when I say that you’re not evil. There’s a world of good in you. Now try to get some sleep.”

The tactician slipped an arm around the prince’s shoulders as he settled closer. Trust did not come easy after so long alone. But if there was any man he could place his faith in…it would be Chrom.

He had little hope that sleep would return. But even if it did not, there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

***

Every day brought them one step closer to the heart of Plegia. Judging by Robin’s maps, within the week they would arrive at the castle gates -- and then the real fight would begin.

Progress remained slow as they fought against the desert sands, but they had sighted no more than a few scouting bands of Plegian soldiers since saving the manakete girl. Chrom was certain that Gangrel had set some sort of trap for them at the capital…but he couldn’t begin to guess the Mad King’s plan. 

In spite of that, Frederick troubled him more than what might await them. Since finding the captain in Robin’s tent, the great knight had been hounding Chrom’s every step, shadowing him in every skirmish -- and monitoring his meetings with the tactician. 

It was beginning to drive the prince mad. 

Twilight settled across the desert as the spires of Plegia’s castle rose on the horizon. Pitching camp in the shadow of a high bluff, sheltered from both the wind and the sand, the Feroxis made no effort to hide the lights of their campfires. Maybe they were far enough out that the light would go unnoticed, or maybe the warriors were inviting a fight -- whatever the case, he could see the tactician’s unease as they moved side by side between the tents. 

As he reached out to touch Robin’s shoulder, though, a familiar clanking caught his attention. They both turned as Frederick strode between them, his hands folded behind his back. “Good evening, milord. Robin. I hope I’m not interrupting important business?”

Robin shook his head. “No, we were going to wait for supper before discussing plans for tomorrow--”

“Very good. If you don’t mind, milord, might I have a word with you in private?”

Chrom glanced at the tactician, begging silently for help -- but Robin only offered an apologetic look, bowing before moving out of sight. 

“What is it, Frederick?” the captain muttered. 

The great knight gestured toward the prince’s tent. Frowning, the captain moved inside, leaning against the table as Frederick followed, folding his arms behind him and looking around with an appraising eye -- which only fed Chrom’s growing impatience. “Alright. What is it?”

“Far be it from me to question you, milord, but I believe we need to discuss matters of propriety.”

“Oh, gods, is this about me falling asleep in Robin’s tent?”

“It could be misconstrued as--”

“I was tired! We all are! He offered a place to sleep and I accepted.” Which was not true, but it was the story they had agreed upon. “Nothing happened. Beyond me getting a decent night’s rest.” 

That part, at least, was true. Unfortunately. 

“Be that as it may. Gods willing, this war will be over very soon, and when that time comes you will need to make a very important decision.”

“Which is?” He hoped it wouldn’t require spending more time in Plegia--

“Who you will marry.”

Chrom gaped.

“I am not a political advisor, milord. But I am certain that when we return to Ylisse, the people will be looking to you for reassurance that the halidom will endure. I would imagine that a wife and the promise of an heir would be a most effective gesture.”

“It…it seems early to be thinking about that,” the prince muttered. 

“Not so premature as you might imagine. It is my duty to protect and provide for you, milord. And a part of that is to ensure that you do not fall prey to misunderstanding. Or ill intent.”

Chrom bristled. “What are you implying?”

“I have been…concerned, for some time, that Robin may not have your best interests in mind. He spends an inordinate amount of time with you--”

“He’s our tactician, he’s there to give counsel.”

“--and inviting you to sleep in his quarters is not only improper, it’s untoward. It could lead to unsavory rumors about--”

“ _Gods,_ Frederick, _nothing happened!”_

“Be that as it may, milord, it is far easier to nip a rumor in the bud than to quash it once it has taken root. I would encourage you to avoid meeting privately with him, or prolonging contact beyond what is absolutely necessary. Perhaps consider spending time with a few of the other Shepherds -- Maribelle and Sully both come from fine families--”

“ _Enough,_ Frederick!” 

The basin and pitcher rattled as the prince slammed his hand on the table. “We’re in the middle of a _war._ Now is _not_ the time to be playing _matchmaker._ We need to focus on the task at hand: getting safely through Plegia and deposing the Mad King.”

“…as you say, milord.” The great knight offered a deep bow before moving to leave. “I would still encourage you to think on it.”

Chrom dearly wanted to break something. But with so few supplies, his options were limited. 

So he waited until the sound of Frederick’s armor had faded away, slipped out of his tent, and made his way to Robin’s. Propriety be damned. 

He was not surprised to find the tactician there, sitting at his writing desk with his maps spread before him. “How was supper?” the prince asked. 

“I wouldn’t know, I haven’t been yet,” Robin murmured, scribbling careful notes along the edge of the parchment. “What did Frederick have to say?”

“Nothing relevant,” Chrom grumbled. “So what have you been up to?”

“Considering how best to approach the castle.” The tactician breathed gently across the wet ink before standing up, gesturing to various features of the map with the end of his quill. “I estimate we’re roughly two days travel from the heart of Plegia now -- we might be able to make the approach and assault in one day, but we would likely be fighting in the dark if we tried. Better to camp early tomorrow and strike after a solid rest so that we can take full advantage of what daylight we have.”

They stood in silence for a few moments, their heads close together as they leaned over the map. It would be so easy to narrow that distance and kiss him, and part of the prince ached to hold him, touch him, feel the warmth of his skin and the heat of his breath and forget the troubles soon to come--

“Chrom?”

The prince blinked, glancing over at the tactician. His expression had turned from thoughtful to grave while Chrom’s attention wandered. “What?”

“There’s…something we need to discuss. Or that you need to hear, at least.”

His heart sank. “What is it?”

“We’re coming to a point where you need to decide--”

“Oh, gods, not this again -- I just got this lecture from Frederick, I don’t need it from you, too.” Not from the man he would have to give up.

“Well, I still think you should hear it once more from me,” Robin said. “Chrom, soon you’re going to have to decide what kind of leader you want to be, and it will be a choice that defines the course of your life, your nation, this continent -- perhaps even the world.”

The prince stared. This was not the conversation he’d been expecting. “I…don’t think I understand.”

“There are many ways to lead,” the tactician murmured. “You’ve seen some of them yourself. The khans lead with strength, uniting their people through bonds of kinship so that all might survive the harshness of their land. Gangrel leads under a banner of fear, spurring the Plegians into action by letting old wounds between nations fester. Your sister led through peace, guiding her people with compassion and trying with all her heart to bring understanding and forgiveness to her country. And your father…”

“My father led Ylisse with hatred,” Chrom growled. “By calling the Grimleal heathens and trying to wipe them out.”

“Yes. And soon…very soon, you will need to decide what path you will choose. There are many, but…but when it comes, you will have a very simple choice. And I think that choice is close at hand.”

“…when?”

“I don’t know,” the tactician admitted. “But you will know it when it comes.”

“What should I choose?”

Robin shook his head. “I can’t make that decision. Only you can.”

“That’s not much help,” the prince muttered. 

“I know. But it’s all that I can give you.”

Chrom sighed, reaching out to cover Robin’s hand. “I appreciate the warning.” He stepped closer, narrowing the distance between them until their foreheads touched, leaning in--

“Frederick’s coming.”

The tactician’s whisper jarred him back to reality. And sure enough, he could hear the great knight’s armor clanking somewhere nearby.

Gods, that man could be overbearing. 

“Shall we see about supper before all the tarts are gone?” Chrom asked. 

“I do enjoy a nice crowberry tart,” Robin agreed. 

“You can have mine, then,” the prince chuckled, holding the tent flap open. Grinning, the tactician moved ahead of him into the dark camp -- and Chrom smiled back, walking shoulder to shoulder with Robin toward the warm firelight.

***

One more night before their assault on the Plegian castle, and Robin feared his heart would not last until morning. They had met little resistance in their final march, which only worried him more: the whole of the Plegian army must be focused around the capital, waiting to meet their charge in force, rested and ready by comparison to their worn and weary troop.

As close as they were, he could see that the castle rose not from the sands, but from a windworn mesa, its cliffs too perilous to scale. They would have to go around, and hope that the sands did not slow their progress overmuch, or else risk fighting their way to the castle after nightfall. The dangers only mounted with every step they took, and he’d long ago lost sight of the safe road. 

His already frayed nerves teetered on the razor edge of panic. And the other Shepherds had begun to notice. Maribelle had offered him a cup of chamomile tea at supper (which he accepted gratefully, even if it only settled his nerves for a few moments), Gaius had made a point _not_ to sneak up on him when delivering his evening report, and Sully hadn’t called him a ninny for the better part of the day. Bad signs, all. If he couldn’t maintain his composure he’d be worthless to them. 

But it was hard. Huddled at his desk with quill in hand, he found his concentration broken by the noises of the busy camp beyond, every unexpected sound and unfamiliar footfall threatening to shatter his taut anxiety. A part of him wanted to scream -- but that would only prove more disconcerting. 

He strained to breathe. His chest felt tight, and when he tried to inhale, he could barely manage a gasp. Closing his eyes, he tried to block out the world beyond, find his calm…

…and couldn’t. The sounds broke through, distant but unsettlingly clear: clanking armor, rattling weapons, footsteps, chatter…he couldn’t put it out of mind. 

_You can come to me._ That’s what Chrom had said, wasn’t it? And Robin feared he could not fight it back on his own this time. 

Slipping from his tent, the tactician moved through the camp, trying to keep out of sight -- which was not as hard as he’d expected, given the hour. Most of the soldiers were either gathered by the campfires or tending to more mundane duties: cleaning armor, sharpening weapons, tending horses. He had little trouble reaching the Captain’s tent unnoticed. 

Now he just had to hope the prince was there. 

“Chrom?” he called softly. He could hear his own voice shaking when he spoke. Never a good sign. 

“Robin?”

Scrambling from within. As the tent flaps parted, the captain took one look at the tactician and immediately stood aside. “Gods, you look terrible.”

“I’m flattered,” Robin muttered, moving into the softly lit pavilion. 

“I’ll talk to Maribelle,” Chrom said. “Sit down. And try not to pass out.”

The tactician might have laughed if that weren’t such a real possibility. He settled nervously among the cushions in the darkest corner of the tent, pulling his coat tight around him and trying to focus on the flickering lamplight rather than the sounds of movement outside. 

Far easier said than done.

He heard the prince’s approach well before Chrom shouldered his way back into the tent, Maribelle’s elaborate china tea tray in hand. “What’s all that for?”

“I just wanted the pot, but she made me take the whole thing,” the captain sighed. “She sends her regards, by the way.”

“Wonderful,” the tactician groaned. 

“People are getting worried,” the prince murmured, sitting down next to Robin. “Even Frederick remarked on it.”

“Really?” That did not bode well. 

“He expressed concern about your health and ability to manage the tactics for tomorrow’s battle.”

“So he was vying for my dismissal from combat as an invalid,” the tactician translated, accepting the cup of tea Chrom offered and breathing in the fragrant steam. 

“Well, it was a different approach,” the prince replied. “It seemed noteworthy.”

“The whole camp seems to think I’m about to fall apart,” Robin muttered. “And I can’t say they’re wrong.”

Chrom’s arm settled around him, drawing him closer. The tactician drew a deep breath, closing his eyes as he leaned against the captain’s shoulder. “When was the last time you slept?” the prince asked.

“…a few hours the night before last.” Or was it the night before that? He couldn’t remember. The days had become a blur of sand and ink on parchment--

“You need to sleep.”

Gods, if only it were that easy. Robin sipped his tea, letting the heat calm his nerves as he tried to gather his thoughts. “I have things to do,” he mumbled around the rim of his teacup. “Plans for tomorrow, defensive strategies--”

“No. _Now.”_

“But--”

“Robin.”

The cup in his hands slipped away. The tactician blinked, fumbling vainly for it--

Chrom shoved him down into the cushions. Even as he struggled upright, the prince pushed him back down, smoothing Robin’s hair as he leaned in close. “You need to sleep,” he murmured, brushing each word across the tactician’s lips. “Stay here tonight.”

“What!?”

Robin scrambled backward as best he could -- until the prince flopped across him, arresting what little progress the tactician had managed to make. 

“You heard me,” Chrom repeated. “Stay here tonight.”

“Frederick will have my head if he catches me--”

“He’s on watch tonight.”

“What if someone else sees me leaving--”

“Early tactical meeting.”

“What if I can’t sleep?”

That, at least, Chrom had no ready answer for.

“Are your fears that loud?”

“Deafening.” Robin fell back, pressing both hands to his eyes. “Whenever I’m not busy with something -- gods, even when I am, I just end up thinking about everything that could go wrong tomorrow, all the dangers, the unknowns, the…”

“…so you need a distraction.”

Something about the prince’s voice sent a tremor down the tactician’s spine. “What--” 

The prince silenced him with a kiss deep enough to make his head swim. Struggling to keep hold of his senses, Robin pushed Chrom back, keenly aware of the warm fingers in his hair, the weight straddling his hips. “Relax,” the captain chuckled. “If we’re lucky, this war ends tomorrow. And after that, we’ll have entirely different problems to face. So right now, I think we could both use a distraction.”

The tactician’s mind reeled as Chrom unhooked the clasp of his coat. “W-what are you thinking?” Robin whispered.

The prince grinned, his hands trailing down the tactician’s chest to his belt. “How’s that wound doing?”

“Lissa hounds me whenever we make camp until I visit the infirmary--”

“Good.” 

Callused fingers slid under Robin’s shirt, easing it up to expose the tactician’s chest. He shivered as Chrom’s hands traced fire across old scars, the unfamiliar touch burning through his senses. “That’s not an answer.” Gods, it was hard to find any words to speak at all.

“I don’t want to risk making it worse,” the captain murmured, leaning close over the tactician. “Calm down. You’re safe here -- a little distraction won’t hurt you.”

The tactician wanted to protest that a little distraction could, in fact, _kill_ him -- but Chrom’s kiss silenced those words before he could speak them, and by the time he broke away those objections had dissolved into a senseless jumble of anxieties. Coiling his arms around the prince’s shoulders, Robin touched his forehead to Chrom’s. “Do you swear?”

Rough hands gently cupped his face. “I swear. I won’t let anything happen that you don’t want.”

More than anything else, he wanted to trust those words. 

The tactician nodded, and the prince touched another kiss to his mouth, easing them back down into the blankets. Robin bit back a gasp as Chrom’s lips grazed his throat, his fingers shaking as they tightened in the prince’s shirt -- but the captain only smiled against the tactician’s breast, trailing ember-bright kisses down to his stomach and stoking the warmth in his core to a blaze. 

Chrom’s fingers teased Robin’s trousers down, rubbing the head of his cock through the foreskin as the tactician buried a cry in his coat sleeve. “This is still so strange to me,” the prince chuckled.

“Gods, are you just going to tease me?” Robin muttered. 

“No,” Chrom rumbled, kissing the tip of the tactician’s length--

_“Stop!”_

“What?” The prince glanced to the opening of the tent, then back to Robin as the tactician scrabbled backward. 

“You can’t,” he gasped. 

Chrom propped his head in his hand, one eyebrow raised. “Why not?”

“Be…because you’re a prince.”

Gods, it sounded absurd when he said it out loud. Chrom apparently agreed, judging by his incredulous look. “What does that have to do with anything?” he prompted. 

“I…it…” Robin raked a hand through his hair, struggling to find the words. The prince shook his head, moving to settle next to the tactician as he dredged his mind for an explanation. “You’re _royalty._ I shouldn’t even _be_ here--”

“Robin.”

The tactician shrank down into his coat. “Hey, don’t hide, we’ve talked about this,” Chrom sighed, pushing the hood back even as Robin tried to draw it up. “This has nothing to do with caste or creed or anything else you’re thinking. You’re exhausted. You’re so worried about so many things that you haven’t slept in days. You’ll get hurt again if you keep on like this. So let me do this for you -- let me distract you. Just long enough for you to get some rest. …let me love you.”

The tactician’s heart seized. “You can’t--”

“Why?”

“It’s not…it’s not proper, it’s not--”

“Alright, fine,” the captain murmured. “How about this: as prince, would you say that I tend to get what I want?”

Robin sensed a trap. But he was too dazed to be sure just where the danger lay. “…yes,” he agreed. 

“Well, what I want is to love you.”

Chrom’s hand smoothed the tactician’s hair away from his face…and Robin closed his eyes, leaning his cheek into the prince’s palm. “So will I get what I want?” the captain asked. 

The sound part of his mind insisted that the only answer could be no, that it went too far, that it would only make things more difficult…

…but that small, selfish part of him that he’d buried for so long yearned for it, all the same. 

He nodded. 

Chrom pressed a kiss to the tactician’s lips, his fingertips trailing down Robin’s chest to stoke the waning heat. As the prince shifted, the tactician slumped back into the cushions, trying to steady his breath, his mind--

The captain’s tongue stroked his cock, and Robin buried a gasp in his sleeve. He thought he heard Chrom laugh, but it was impossible to tell over the deafening beat of his own heart. This couldn’t be real. It was either a dream or a delusion, but it couldn’t be--

Callused fingers curled around his length, gently drawing back his foreskin…before warm lips pursed around the tip, sliding down as the tactician buried a cry in his coat. The prince moved slowly, his tongue stroking, circling, as Robin’s back arched against the blankets…and as his hips twitched, Chrom coiled his arm around the tactician’s thigh and met him without hesitation. 

His body and mind both felt fit to burst into flame. Thoughts evaporated, leaving only sensations overwhelming his mind: heat, wet, suction, cold air in his lungs, rough fingertips on his skin, thunder in his skull, his heart pounding against his ribs, a coil of crackling tension below this stomach winding tighter and tighter until he feared he might break before the heat consumed him--

He came, his body arching as the strain snapped and unraveled. And then he sank into the cushions, gasping for breath, waiting for the staccato beat of his heart to subside. 

Blinking hazily out from under his sleeve, Robin caught Chrom staring as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. The tactician wasn’t aware he had any strength left for embarrassment -- but sure enough, his cheeks heated as he hid his face in his sleeve.

As his pulse quieted, he heard the prince shifting to settle by his side. “So,” Chrom rumbled into Robin’s hair. “Was that an agreeable distraction?” 

The tactician offered up a faint mumble in place of the words he couldn’t seem to find. The prince chuckled, smoothing the tactician’s hair…and he leaned heavily into that touch as the captain tucked the blankets around the both of them. “You should try to sleep.”

Sleep did sound nice. He struggled to keep his eyes open as Chrom’s arms wrapped around him. In the warmth of the prince’s embrace, a sense of safety, nearly forgotten, settled over his mind…and sleep followed close behind.

***

Chrom woke just before dawn to find Robin sitting beside him, his quill busily scratching out plans for the day’s assault. That alone proved that the night had been more than a dream. They spoke only a few words as the captain prepared for the day -- mostly about whether or not the tactician had slept (he said he had, but Chrom wasn’t sure he believed it), how much (‘enough,’ Robin insisted, which didn’t sound exactly promising), and what the plans were for the attack (complicated, judging from his glance at the parchment).

But in the silence that marked the tactician’s deepest thoughts, the prince slipped an arm around his waist -- and Robin settled against him, rather than shying away. 

It made his chest ache, to think of losing this. 

The troops ate and packed in short order, marching toward the castle atop the cliffs. He might not be a tactical genius, but he saw their wisdom: the sheer face gave them a perfect vantage to fend off attacks, while forcing the enemy to circle around for any way up -- which would, more than likely, be heavily defended or littered with traps. Likely both. 

They gave wide berth to the bluff, keeping well out of archer range as they fought against the shifting sands. But as they came around to the far side of the ridge, the whole company stopped to stare at the great skull rising out of the sands below the castle’s perch, three gaping sockets where its eyes had been. 

They really were bones. Robin had been right. 

More pressing were the walls that surrounded it -- and the wyverns lurking on the parapets, taking to the skies to meet them. But they had been waiting for resistance for days now. They were ready for this.

They charged. 

Sumia and Cordelia dove out of the sky, driving more soldiers from their hiding places among the dunes. Archers sheltered by the windworn stones traded shots with Ricken, Miriel, Virion, and the Feroxi bowmen while the rest of the troops fought on through the sand, making their way to the edge of the wall and the scattered stone forts where the bulk of the Plegian army waited for them. 

And there the Feroxis began to struggle as mages met their advance. The first wave of soldiers was forced back by a wall of flame and swirling darkness -- the second wave stopped just short of the molten river the attacks left behind, only to be burned by the next fireball sailing from the top of the fort. 

But unlike their Feroxi allies, the Shepherds knew how to handle spellcasters -- and Chrom was reminded of how glad he was to have Robin at his side. The prince might not be able to reach the sorcerers atop the fort, but he could cover the tactician sending arcs of power soaring over the high roofs.

The Ylisseans broke through, and the khans’ soldiers charged ahead. The forts marked the end of the desert, though none of them had time to praise their return to solid ground before the next force of lancers met their advance. But with their feet no longer mired in shifting sand, the fighting felt easier, their steps lighter and faster than they’d been in weeks. 

He could see the courtyard gates through the fighting, defended on each side by more forts filled with archers. Not much further now, though, and Gangrel would be in their reach--

A figure moved in the shadows. 

The prince stopped short, turning toward the shadows with Falchion raised as a woman materialized out of the dark. He could see the tome in her hands, shifted to cover Robin as the tactician readied a spell…

…but the dark mage only wrapped her arms around the book, glancing at the fighting around them with apparent disinterest. 

Chrom glanced back at Robin, who shrugged as the circles faded. “You, there!” the prince called, lowering his blade. “Are you with the Plegians? You seem reluctant to fight.”

The woman snorted. “Death comes for us all, eventually. Why invite it early, fighting for a cause I don’t believe in?”

The captain and the tactician both raised an eyebrow. “So…I should take that as a no, or…” he prompted. 

“Let’s just say…I’m keeping my options open. I mean, long live the king and all, but I’d like to keep living, as well. And I have a bit of a rebellious streak. A…dark side,” she grinned. 

Well, that sounded more than a little ominous. 

But she didn’t seem interested in fighting for Gangrel, and he wasn’t one to waste an opportunity. “Then perhaps you would rebel now and fight for our cause?”

That got the woman’s attention. “You would trust me? What if this is just a ploy to plunge a dagger in your back?”

He’d like to see her try, given that he knew just who stood behind him. “I’d have far fewer friends if I didn’t keep an open mind. Besides, I already need to watch my back, whether you’re with us or not.”

“…well, that’s odd. Usually when I bring up the backstabbing bit, the discussion is over,” she muttered. “…alright, then. Consider me your new ally. …for now.”

Before Chrom could decide how to take that remark, a cheer rose behind them. The prince turned to see Flavia standing on the heavy armor of a Plegian general, her sword catching the fading sunlight as she raised it in triumph. “Do you ever think she’s enjoying this?” he asked. 

“Oh, I don’t doubt it in the least,” the tactician chuckled, keeping easy pace with the captain as he moved to join the khans at the courtyard gates. 

“Took you long enough,” Basilio grumbled. “What’ve you been doing, boy, shearing clouds?”

“Daydreaming,” Robin translated, stepping slightly closer to the prince as the dark mage snuck up beside him. 

“Oh, lay off, old man,” the east khan laughed, hopping back to the ground from her perch. “You’ve just got a pike up your ass because I finished him off.”

“Might I recommend we hurry?” Frederick prompted, quieting his horse as it tossed its head. “Night is upon us, if we don’t press on we’ll be fighting in the dark--”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re working on it,” the west khan muttered. “Put your backs into it!”

The gates gave a deafening roar of protest as the Feroxis hauled back. “Are you ready?” Chrom murmured, tightening his hands on Falchion’s hilt.

“As much as I’ll ever be, I imagine,” Robin breathed. 

The doors opened.

…and a sea of faces turned toward them. So many -- gods, how could they fight an army so great--

“Well, look who it is,” Gangrel cackled from the altar by the giant skull. “We’ve been expecting you, Little Prince. And what a lovely time for you to pay us a visit -- just in time for Grima’s Night! I can’t think of a more perfect hour to seal your fate.”

“Grima’s Night?” Chrom hissed. “What is--”

“Oh, gods.”

Robin’s voice was no more than a whisper in the dark beside him. Glancing over, the captain saw the tactician’s pale face shadowed in the torchlight. 

“You came all this way for me, yes?” the Plegian king taunted. “Don’t keep me waiting now. I’m told I’m not the most _patient_ man.”

He gestured. An arrow whistled through the air, clanging harmlessly off Kellam’s armor -- but clearly intended for the mage standing in his shadow. 

“You _dastard--_ ”

“Chrom, you can’t--”

A woman in the crowd moved. Chrom readied his sword to strike--

And stopped as the dark bundle in her arms began to cry. 

He heard the Shepherds tense for combat and raised his hand to still them, looking again over the army spread before them. Soldiers ringed the courtyard -- but trapped between Gangrel’s dias and the Ylissean forces were the Plegian people. Children hiding behind their mothers’ skirts, husbands shielding their wives, men and women both moving their hands from face to chest and lacing their fingers as they looked to the ground -- the same gesture Robin had used before Emmeryn’s grave. 

They were praying. 

“Lay down your arms,” Chrom murmured. 

“Milord--”

The prince sheathed his sword. 

“These people are not our enemies. Lower your weapons.”

He caught Frederick’s look of horror. And alongside it, Robin’s overwhelming relief. 

The Plegian people parted as he approached, their eyes wide and bright in the scarce torchlight. They did not try to stop him. They did not strike at him. They did not jeer or threaten, cast stones or spells. They only watched as he moved through the courtyard, up the steps, to the altar below the skull’s three eyes. Turning to look back, he saw the Shepherds at the gates, the Feroxis close behind…and the Plegian people. Waiting.

Robin had told him that he would need to make a choice. 

He could see it now, spread before him. Gangrel had brought his people here -- by luck or design, he dared not guess -- to trick their army. Into retreat or attack, he did not know…and perhaps it didn’t matter to the Mad King. 

“People of Plegia -- please, hear me,” Chrom called over the silent crowd. “I came to your lands with vengeance in mind. That man,” he said, turning to point at Gangrel lounging against the railing on the stairs high above, “ordered my sister’s death, and for that I wanted his blood. …she was kind. She saw the good in every man and woman she met, no matter their nation or creed. What my sister sought was peace. Not just for her people, but for everyone: Ylisse, Ferox, Plegia…her dream was to see a world without war, where people did not strike each other down for their differences, but reached out in understanding, and acceptance.”

He looked to the sky, stars winking in the darkness above…and then to the ground, where the Grimleal turned their prayers. “Gangrel took her life. He robbed us of peace -- not just Ylisse, but Plegia, as well. He has torn this land apart, not to defend his people, but to satisfy his own thirst for revenge against a man long dead. My father was a cruel man. His war destroyed so many lives -- but rather than seek to restore his nation, the Mad King has followed in those same footsteps, and killed the one who sought to heal those wounds, and many more besides.”

He drew a deep, shaking breath, and turned his gaze again to the Plegian people. “I will not follow their path. I will not leave ruin in my wake. I seek one man here -- but no longer for revenge. He has poisoned your nation with lies, fear, and hatred. Peace cannot flourish under such a man. I want neither conquest nor destruction. I would only see my sister’s dream fulfilled. Please -- everyone -- let us end this vicious cycle of pain and vengeance. Let go of your hatred and your fear. I mean you no harm. _We_ mean you no harm. What you do is your own choice -- and this is mine.”

They watched as he removed the swords from his side and let them fall to the stones. He could not see their faces in the dark, but he felt their eyes -- and looking over the crowd to the Shepherds, still waiting by the gates, he saw Robin’s smile. 

He’d made the right choice. 

The prince stepped forward.

A strange light, pulsing violet and flecked with embers, gathered around him.

And then pain tore him apart.

***

_“CHROM!!”_

Robin’s body moved well ahead of coherent thought. He saw the magic circles high above, surrounding a woman on a dark pegasus; his own spell blazed to light more by instinct than conscious effort, and the arc it carved through the dark threw blinding sparks as it struck the curving horn overhead. 

“Sumia!”

She caught his hand and pulled him up behind her as her mount leapt into the air, soaring over the crowd of panicked Plegians. Landing on the dias, the tactician slid to the ground and pulled the prince up against him, out of sight of Gangrel’s mage. Chrom’s skin felt hot, scorched, the sharp smell of lightning in the air clouded by something noxious, something toxic, that he could not place…

But even as Robin hauled the limp body up behind Sumia’s saddle, he could feel life. A breath against his cheek, a pulse under his hands. Hope that another funeral would not be in their future. 

“Go.”

“What about you--”

“You can’t carry three, and someone needs to cover your escape. _Go!”_

She hesitated. The tactician turned, scanning the high walls of the courtyard, and fired a bolt at the nearest archer, striking him down before he could nock the arrow in his bow. 

“Go,” Robin breathed. “Take care of him.”

“I’ll be back for you,” she promised. 

And then she was gone, her pale mount glowing as she crossed the night sky. Looking back to the walls, he fired another spell at the bowman hurrying to fill his fallen comrade’s place. In the faint torchlight, he saw a third by the gates readying his weapon. Lunging forward, Robin summoned up another bolt to flash across the space between them -- too far to make contact, but close enough to skew the archer’s aim away from Sumia’s flight. 

He saw her land safely with the other Shepherds, watched them flock around her and their fallen captain. And then he moved, gathering up Chrom’s weapons and preparing to cross the courtyard…

…only to find the way barred. Plegian soldiers advanced up the stairs, weapons flashing in the low light. Too many to count. Too many to fight. Too many to escape. 

A curious sorrow welled up in his heart as he tucked the sheathed blades beneath his arm. He had broken his oath. And he would have no chance even to apologize. To say farewell. 

He opened the book on his arm and lifted his hand to the sky.

So be it. 

Electricity crackled in his upraised palm as he summoned up the power deep within. Ylisse’s royal blade would survive this. And he had traveled further than most, done more, seen more, _experienced_ more than he’d dared to dream of. 

No regrets.

Only action. 

The circles glowed around him, and he closed his eyes. 

“There’s no need for that, now.”

Spidery hands folded his fingers, drawing his arm down. Robin whirled, snatching his hand back as he stumbled away from--

His mother.

He had nearly forgotten her face. But now she stood before him, smiling as he drew Grima’s mark. He’d not seen her since her burial -- ten Grima’s Nights gone, and even in his dreams, he had felt no trace of her presence until now…

“Easy. Easy, now.”

The voice was wrong. And as the figure moved closer into the torchlight, the tactician realized that the features -- close, but not quite right -- belonged to a man. 

“Who are you?” Robin whispered. 

“I wouldn’t expect you to remember,” the stranger chuckled. “You were so small, when she brought you to us. Gods, you look so much like her, I almost thought…”

The tactician had believed just the same.

Turning, the man looked out over the courtyard. The Plegian guard had lost ground -- not to the Shepherds or Feroxi soldiers, but to their own people, forcing the troops back with sheer numbers rather than violence. “Seems you’ve allied yourself with a good man,” he murmured. “She’d be proud, seeing you now.”

_“Robin!”_

Sully’s mount cleared the steps with ease, stomping and snorting as it backed toward the tactician. “Friend of yours?” the man murmured. Robin nodded, unable to find words. “Best hurry, then. We’ll hold them back as long as we can. …may Grima keep watch over your soul.”

“…and yours,” the tactician whispered. And as the cavalier grabbed his arm and dragged him up behind her, the stranger turned and vanished into the crowd. 

“Who was that?” Sully asked as she charged toward the gates. 

“…I don’t know.” He could guess, but--

“And what the _fuck_ were you thinking, going in there like that? You could’ve wound up a bloody smear!”

“I appreciate the concern,” he murmured. As they galloped out into the desert night beyond the Plegian courtyard, Robin turned a last look on the castle behind them, built above the skull of the Grimleals’ fallen divine. Gangrel would certainly not let them go unopposed, now that his trap had failed. His people had turned on him -- but the Mad King did not seem the type to let that stand in his way. 

The Shepherds were not yet safe. Their future remained uncertain, with their captain gravely injured and their troops stranded deep within enemy lands.

But hope remained. And Robin clung fast to it as they rode through the dark, praying that it would see them through to morning.


	15. Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the disastrous assault on Plegia's capital, the Shepherds and their allies are forced to retreat toward the safety of Ferox's western borders. But the Mad King will not allow the Ylisseans to escape so easily, and the battle of the mire may seal the halidom's end...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Warnings: Language, Blood, Violence, Gore, Death**
> 
>   
>  You know what one of my favorite things about writing is?
> 
> When inspiration comes barging in and drops a beautiful idea on your table without warning. It might delay things, but in the end I hope it was worth it.
> 
> More perspective shifts this chapter. Dashes (-) still indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

Robin had never been fond of his appointment as the Shepherds’ tactician. It was not a matter of dislike so much as discomfort: when he only had his own safety to worry about, he’d felt assured that his Feroxi upbringing and strategic studies would see him through -- and should the worst come to pass, he always had a failsafe to fall back on. But here, his tactics had to serve dozens of soldiers in situations where a single misstep meant death. He could not guide so many through the ever-changing chaos of combat. He could not keep them all safe. 

They had been lucky for so long. The Shepherds had emerged, battered but alive, from every engagement, and he had thanked the gods for that small blessing. 

But now he stood in the dark infirmary, holding Chrom’s still hand with trembling fingers, and struggled to cope with his failure. 

It had all gone so wrong so quickly. The spell out of nowhere. Their disorderly retreat from the courtyard. And what little hope he’d managed to salvage had withered when they finally stopped to rest under the low crescent moon. The healers’ words were grave. Libra’s call for prayer was little better. Which only made the weight of the Shepherds’ stares heavier. He could feel the silent accusations. The unspoken distrust. The doubts. The suspicions. 

And still, they expected him to guide them. Three days spent marching toward the setting sun, and with each moonrise he sat silently with the khans and Frederick to plan their course. His mind felt paralyzed, overwhelmed by everything else that could befall them before they reached safety: the canyons offered shelter from the wind but prevented them from spying enemies until the ambush was sprung; the dry plains offered clear vantage but no protection from attacks or the elements. He could barely speak when they asked for his counsel. 

But ask they did. And the best he could do was guess the least dangerous road before retreating to the infirmary.

While his wounds were healing as well as magic and medicine could manage, the captain had not stirred. Even through his gloves, Chrom’s fingers felt cold as death in Robin’s grip. Gods, how had he let Chrom walk into that? He should have known better, he should have realized that it was a part of the trap -- how would he apologize when the prince woke up?

…what would he do if Chrom never woke again?

His stomach twisted at the thought. But even as his trembling hand tightened, the captain did not move. 

He had failed. Chrom, Lissa, the Shepherds, the Feroxis, _everyone…_ he had failed them all. How could he trust himself with their safety anymore? How could he _stay_ here after--

“Is someone there?”

Robin looked up at the call, tucking his hands reluctantly into his pockets. A soft light bobbed through the darkness, illuminating Sumia’s face as she came into view. “Oh. Hello, Robin.” The tactician nodded politely to the pegasus knight as she moved to stand beside him. “How…how is he?”

He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. But Sumia understood. “How long have you been here?” Robin shook his head again. “You should get some sleep. We need you to guide us--”

“Don’t ask that of me.”

“What?” She turned toward him, but he could not meet her eye. “B-but you’re our tactician, that’s what…that’s what you do, isn’t it?”

“I _can’t._ ” 

He clutched his sleeves, closing his eyes tight and seeing again the flash of violet lightning that consumed the captain in the courtyard. “I can’t guide them. The captain trusted me and he could _die_ because of it -- who would willingly place their life in my hands after I _failed_ the _one_ man we need _most--_ ”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

His voice guttered out as the pegasus knight touched his arm. “Oh, Robin -- is that really what you think?”

“How can I not?”

“Because -- because it’s not true! You couldn’t have known what would happen -- _nobody_ could. You’re so good at planning and preparing for what the enemy is going to do, but…but how could you have known that? Everyone was listening to him, they weren’t yelling or trying to hurt him, or…”

She sniffled thickly, the lamp in her hands casting a shaky glow across the cot. “I really thought that…it might end. Right there. I was hoping so hard that he’d get through to them, and we could end the war right there without another person dying on either side. …that probably sounds silly, doesn’t it?” she laughed, rubbing her eye with the heel of her palm. 

“No,” Robin murmured. “I was praying for the same.”

“…we’ll have to fight again, won’t we?” Sumia asked. The tactician nodded, trying to still his shaking with a tighter grip. “…we need you, Robin.”

Her hand lit on his, a feather-light touch that made his breath catch even still. “I’m afraid.”

They stood together, only the sound of their breaths disturbing the silence. Something welled up in his chest -- a scream, a cry, something that would break him if he let it out, shatter him like so much china on stone--

“Do you need a hug?”

He looked over at the pegasus knight, tear tracks glistening on her cheeks in the dim lamplight. “I-I thought I’d ask, since…uhm…I-I don’t think I’ve ever seen you really touch anybody. You’re always so careful around other people, not to get in their way or bump into them, a-and I had to tell you to hold on when we fought together, but…but you look like you could use a hug. So…”

The tactician tried to dredge up a smile, tried to say that he appreciated the offer, tried to say that he was alright…but his throat closed on the lie before he could utter it. Instead he nodded, and Sumia set the light down on the stand beside Chrom’s cot before putting her arms around him. 

She smelled of lilacs. It was all he could think of as he returned her embrace. The scent of flowers clung to her, subtle and sweet and somehow comforting in the forlorn darkness. “I know it’s scary,” she whispered. “I’m scared, too. Gods, I’m so scared of what’s going to happen, sometimes I just want to bury myself in all this sand. But…but we can’t do that, because hiding won’t make it go away. It’ll just stay scary. So when I get feeling hopeless like that, I think about the heroes in books, and what they would do. And the answer is always that they face their fears. Even when they’re scared, they face their fears head on. They make mistakes -- everybody makes mistakes, but they don’t let it stop them from doing their duty. They keep on going, even when things go wrong, and they learn from it. So…so don’t give up on us, Robin. We need you. We _believe_ in you. So please -- for all of us -- be our hero.”

The tactician laughed weakly, wiping his face with the hem of his sleeve. “You’re more inspiring than most of the heroes I’ve read about.”

“You think so?” Pulling away, the pegasus knight scrubbed at her eyes, a smile finally returning to her face. “Does that mean--”

“Robin? Are you here?”

They both jumped, hastily wiping their faces and stepping apart as Frederick moved into view. “We were beginning to grow concerned. …any change?” The tactician shook his head, and the great knight’s frown deepened. “We’ve just received word from the west khan’s scouts. We’ll need you in council to plan our next move.”

Robin inclined his head. As Frederick retreated, the tactician turned a final glance to Sumia. “Stay with him,” he murmured. “And if there’s any change…”

“I’ll let you know right away,” she finished. “…you can do it, hero.”

Bowing deeply, Robin could not stop a faint smile from creeping across his face. The pegasus knight returned it with one of her own, brimming with faith and confidence enough to bolster the tactician’s flagging spirit. 

Turning to follow the great knight into the dark, Robin took a deep, steadying breath. He did not feel any less afraid. And he could well fail again -- that possibility would loom, daunting, over every march, every battle yet to come. 

But even still. For everyone who put their trust in him -- for these people he had come to care for -- he would try.

***

It was the cold that woke him.

The fire must have gone out sometime in the night. Reaching for the blankets--

Pain lanced through his chest and arms. He gasped, trying to still himself, wait out the agony burning down into his bones--

“Captain!”

“Sumi-ia?”

He was not greeted with stone ceilings and blue banners when he opened his eyes. Instead he found canvas and linen, lit by a glow from somewhere just out of sight. And Sumia, leaning over him and nearly in tears. “Oh, thank the gods you’re awake, we’ve been worried sick--”

It came back slowly. The castle courtyard, Gangrel’s taunt, the stares of the silent Plegian people…and then darkness. Emmeryn’s voice. Had that been a dream? “How long have I been out?”

“A few days,” she said, gently pushing him back as he tried to struggle upright. “Please don’t strain yourself, Captain, you were badly hurt -- just rest, alright? I’ll be right back, just -- just stay here.”

Chrom didn’t see what choice he had, since moving made him regret waking at all. But he agreeably lay back as the pegasus knight hurried out of the infirmary, tripping only once (that he heard, at least). 

A few days. What had happened? He could guess that they’d made it safely away from the courtyard, but beyond that…were they in hiding? Trapped? Under siege? What else had Gangrel planned to slow them down--

Before he could finish collecting his thoughts, Lissa rocketed into the infirmary and flung herself at his bedside in tears. “Chrom! Oh, gods, Chrom, I’m so glad you’re okay, I was so _scared…_ ”

 _Okay_ seemed excessive when he couldn’t move. But he still appreciated the sentiment. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“What were you _thinking_ out there!? You could have been _killed,_ why would you _do_ that!?”

“I was thinking about Emm,” he murmured. “About what she would have done.” Their sister’s voice echoed faintly in his mind, but he couldn’t quite make out the words. She had been in his dream, hadn’t she…? What had she said?

“You should have been more careful,” Lissa huffed. “You could have _died,_ and I don’t know what I would’ve done i-if I lost you, too…”

Ignoring the pain, Chrom reached out to squeeze his sister’s hand. “I’m sorry, Lissa. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’ll be more careful. I promise.”

“You’d better,” she sniffled, curling her fingers around his. “A-and I’m gonna hold you to it.”

The prince smiled at his sister. “So where are we?” he asked, turning his head just enough to glance around the tent.

“Still in Plegia. Khan Basilio sent a scout ahead -- it’s not as sandy on the west side, so he was gonna try to get wagons sent in so we can get out of here. A messenger just got back a while ago, so…hopefully it’s good news, for once.”

“Gods, I hope so,” Chrom muttered. “And at least we’re not slogging through more desert.” If he never saw another sand dune it would be too soon--

“Milord!”

Gods, Sumia moved fast. The space around his cot was suddenly crowded with faces: Frederick, Sumia, both khans, on top of his sister who refused to budge an inch. “Here I thought this war was gonna cost two Ylissean royals,” Basilio chuckled. “Don’t think I’ve ever been glad to be wrong before.”

“Told you he had more fight in him than that,” Flavia grinned, punching the west khan in the arm. 

“Thank the gods, we were afraid we’d lose you,” the great knight sighed. “Our captain and tactician in one day--”

“Where’s Robin?”

A wave of fear surged through the prince as he struggled upright. Gods, the tactician had promised to take care -- what had happened to him? Where was he? They were still in Plegia -- could they still save him before--

“Milord, please,” Frederick protested, trying to push the captain back. “You’re injured, you shouldn’t strain yourself--”

 _“Where is Robin?”_ Chrom demanded. 

The great knight sighed, waving into the dark. A shadow slid into the light as Sumia stepped aside, the unmistakable hood drawn up over his face. 

“Captain.” 

It was Robin’s voice that finally calmed him. Letting Frederick ease him back down, the prince breathed a slow sigh. Thank the gods, he’d not been lost. 

“You should rest, milord,” the great knight said. “Come, everyone--”

“Robin stays,” the prince murmured. 

Flavia snorted. Basilio elbowed her, which only made her grin widen. “Milord, please, I must protest--”

“He stays.”

“…as you wish,” Frederick sighed. “But only briefly. I’ll inform the healers.”

Gods, that man could be overbearing. 

But the rest of them left, the great knight shooing Lissa out in front of him, until only the tactician remained. Chrom made a small gesture, inviting him closer…and after a moment, Robin moved to stand beside the cot, his fingers folded over his marked hand. 

“You nearly broke your oath,” the prince said.

“As did you,” the tactician replied, bowing his head slightly. 

That roused him. “How was I supposed to keep that oath when I was stunned--”

“Lissa told me you swore to keep us all safe,” Robin corrected. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re part of the ‘all’ you swore to.”

…he had forgotten about that.

The captain settled back, reaching out to touch the tactician’s hand. And instead of shying away, Robin caught his fingers and held them fast. “What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

“You still can’t answer a question with a question,” Chrom grumbled, tightening his grip on the tactician’s cold hand. “…I remember the Plegian people looking to me. I couldn’t tell what they were thinking, but…but I didn’t think they were going to hurt us. And then there was this…this purple light, and pain, and…and then nothing.”

“It was a spell,” Robin murmured. “That woman who accompanies Gangrel, she used some kind of dark magic…there wasn’t much time. We only had a few seconds, an instant, before it…it might have killed you. I fired a bolt at her -- I don’t know if I hit her but it at least broke her concentration -- and then Sumia and I flew to you. I helped her get you up onto her pegasus, and then I covered her retreat.”

“…and?” Chrom prompted. 

“And what?” 

“What’s this about the Shepherds nearly losing their tactician?”

“Gangrel’s soldiers blocked the way to the gates, but the Plegian people pushed them back--”

“You could have been captured.”

“I was prepared, if it came to that.”

“You would have _died._ ”

“And if I’d been a moment too slow, attacking that mage -- if I hadn’t stayed behind and kept Sumia safe from the archers, _you_ could have died. I couldn’t let that happen -- if there was anything I could do to prevent that, anything at all, I…I knew I had to do it.”

“At the cost of your life?”

“What is my life, compared to yours?” 

Chrom couldn’t see the tactician’s expression beneath his hood. But he could hear in Robin’s voice everything that would never show on his face. “Don’t--”

“You know it. You know what I am. What I’m fated to be. What you did there, in the courtyard -- they _heard._ They _listened._ We _escaped_ because you touched those people with your words. You could -- you _can_ bring peace to this land. The world _needs_ you alive. …and it would be better off with me dead.”

The prince wished moving didn’t hurt as much as it did. More than anything, he wanted to drag the tactician down, drive those demons out of his head however he could. But that lost some of its power when he had to ask Robin to come to him.

So he started to push himself up instead. 

“Gods, Chrom, don’t--”

As the tactician moved to stop him, the prince pushed his hood back. The weak lamplight did him no favors. Between the charcoal rings drawn beneath his eyes and the pallor of his skin, he looked as though he hadn’t slept since Chrom’s fall. Which, knowing Robin, could well be true. 

“Don’t talk like that,” the captain said, sliding his arm across the tactician’s shoulders. “Do you think I’d have gotten this far without you? Do you think I’d even be _alive_ now if not for you? Your destiny isn’t who you are. _You_ decide that. Just…look at everything you’ve done. You’ve defended me, and Lissa, all of us -- even strangers -- knowing it put you in danger. You’ve helped unite Ylisse and Ferox, and you’re trying to bring peace to the nation you fear most. The world wouldn’t be better off without you -- gods, I would have fallen to an assassin’s blade long ago if not for you. The world would be a different place -- and likely a darker one -- without you in it. The world needs you. _I_ need you. So…so please. Don’t weigh my life over your own.”

The tactician had begun to shiver while Chrom spoke. As he touched his forehead to Robin’s, the tactician’s breath hitched. “Oh, gods, don’t cry, I can’t even handle it when Lissa cries,” the prince muttered.

“I’m sorry,” Robin whispered. 

“No, don’t -- that’s not what I meant. I always make a mess of it when I try to cheer people up. Emm always knew what to say, but I just seem to make things worse…”

Emm. The last fragments of his dream still lingered, just out of reach. “…I think I saw her,” Chrom murmured. “Emmeryn. In my dream. I can’t remember what she said, but….”

“Maybe she was telling you to keep moving forward.”

“You think?”

“You returned from the brink of death,” Robin replied. “That seems to mean you should press on.”

“Do you always put such stock in dreams?” the prince chuckled. 

“Not all. But some. Death and sleep are not so different, after all. On the verge of dying, sometimes our dreams are…something more.”

“…Grimleal don’t…try to cheat death for dreams like that, do they?”

The tactician laughed softly, which seemed a great improvement. “I don’t know if that’s even part of the Grimleal faith. It’s something my mother believed. She fell ill soon after I was born, and they feared she would not wake from her sleep. She told me…she dreamed of Grima, and the fell dragon warned her that her child and her world would be forsaken if she stayed in Plegia. And when she woke, it felt like more than a dream. So before the next dawn, she took her child and fled toward Ferox.”

“…I’m glad she did,” Chrom murmured. Robin smiled at him, and the captain leaned close--

A quiet noise in the dark beyond. Easing the prince back down, the tactician straightened, stepping carefully away from the cot. Chrom cursed the healer that strode into the lamplight, her face set in a stern frown as she planted her hands on her hips. “Alright, that’s enough chit-chat. You need to rest and _you_ need some godsdamn sleep, you lackwit. Get the _fuck_ out of my infirmary. Go on!” Robin cast a sheepish smile over his shoulder, pulling his hood up as the woman shooed him out of the tent. Not how he’d pictured the conversation ending. Not how he’d _wanted_ the conversation to end. 

But it would have to do for now.

***

Chrom’s near miraculous revival had lifted every Shepherd’s spirit. Even as the weather turned, Robin heard no complaints around the camp. Only praise and prayers to the gods and Naga for his recovery.

The tactician, for his part, had attacked the problem of escaping Plegia with renewed fervor. Basilio’s scout had brought heartening news: wagons were being sent across the border to speed their departure, and would be waiting beyond the canyon for their arrival. With safety so near at hand and so much depending on their escape…he could not afford to hesitate. 

They broke camp before dawn, marching through the ravine in defensive formation. The weak morning light that managed to seep through the clouds silhouetted the grand spires curving into the sky ahead. Grima’s ribs, beckoning them onward toward the safe haven of Ferox. If they could just make it through her breast…

“Damn!”

The west khan’s curse made Robin’s heart sink. He’d hoped they would be able to take their leave without risking another battle. But the shadows milling and shifting in the deep canyons of Grima’s spine made it clear that the Plegians would not let them escape so easily. 

“To arms, warriors!” Flavia roared, unsheathing her sword. A shout rose from the Feroxi soldiers as they moved into position, fanning wide around the core as the rest of their forces hurried to secure the wounded and the supplies for the crossing. This had always been a possibility, and they could not simply send the fighters ahead this time and regroup after the battle. They needed to push through together. 

Gods, please let this plan succeed--

“Where do you want me?”

The tactician whirled as Chrom shouldered his way through the crowd with sword in hand. “I want you with the rest of the injured,” Robin hissed. 

“I’m not leaving you to this fight alone,” the prince said. 

“In your condition, going into battle is suicide.”

“The healers said I was free to move about camp--”

“There’s a _difference_ between daily activities and a _godsdamn war, Chrom.”_

“I’m the captain--”

“And I’m your tactician, so _listen to me when I say keep back.”_

“Robin--”

“Chrom, I swear on Grima’s bones if you don’t keep back in this fight I will _drag you back and tie you down.”_

The prince stared as the tactician struggled to rein in his emotions. “Did you just threaten me?”

“Will it convince you to _listen_ if I say yes?”

The captain raised an eyebrow. “Who’s leading the Shepherds in my stead, then?”

“Frederick.”

“Not you?”

“I’m an advisor, not a leader. Besides, he does have rank on his side.”

“Is he listening to you?”

“I hope so.”

“Tell him it’s an order from me if he balks.”

Robin smiled. “Thank you, Captain.” Turning to go--

Chrom touched his shoulder. “Don’t forget your oath. You nearly broke it once already.”

“I won’t,” the tactician murmured, resting his hand on the prince’s for just a moment. “But you have an oath to keep as well. Sumia!”

The pegasus knight jumped at his call, tripping as she turned to face them. Scrambling back to her feet, she hurried over with a flustered salute. “Y-yes?”

“Hang back and keep an eye on the captain. Make sure he doesn’t do anything foolish.”

Both Sumia and Chrom went rather pink as they looked at each other. “I-is that alright with you, Captain?” she asked.

“I’m fine with it,” the prince replied hastily.

“Forgive the intrusion, but are you sure that’s a good idea?” Cordelia asked, coming up beside her fellow knight. “I mean no offense, but Sumia can be…well, clumsy. I’d be happy to stay back if--”

“I’m sorry, have you not paid attention to this woman in battle?” Robin asked. “I fought alongside her once. I would not want to cross blades with her. And I have absolute faith in her ability to protect the captain should the enemy break through our ranks.”

Sumia blushed fiercely, twisting a lock of silver hair around her finger. “Thank you -- I promise I won’t let you down!”

“I know you won’t,” Robin murmured. “You’re the hero now. Don’t forget that.”

A brilliant smile flashed across Sumia’s face, and the tactician returned it in softer kind. And then he moved to join the rest of the Shepherds as they scattered, catching Sully making the final preparations with her mount and weapons before taking to the field. “Would it trouble you too much if I joined you?”

The cavalier grinned as she pulled herself into the saddle, offering a hand down to him. “You’re welcome as long as you don’t get in the way of my blade.”

“I’ll do my level best,” Robin promised as he settled behind her. The tactician wrapped an arm around her -- and just in time to avoid being unseated as her mount reared and charged to the front of the formation, snorting and stamping as it paused alongside the Feroxi khans. 

A small force of Plegians moved across the waste, charred from a recent fire. “Ylisseans!” their commander called, removing his helm and tucking it under his arm. “I offer you mercy. Surrender to me now and live!”

“Surrender?” Basilio scoffed. “Sorry, I’m not familiar with that word!”

“Your prince and your exalt would not have wished for this to come to bloodshed,” the man replied. 

“Don’t even dare, after what you swine did to them!” Sully shouted, brandishing her sword as her horse pawed the ground. 

“Your rage is justified,” the Plegian commander replied as the Shepherds and Feroxis raised their weapons. “But the meaning of his act was not lost on me. I suspect many Plegians who heard his words would say the same. If you lay down your weapons, as he did, I vow to protect you as best I can. 

“How can we trust you after what your barbarous king has done?” Frederick demanded. “I think we shall take our chance with weapons in hand!”

The man shook his head. “I suspected you would say as much. So be it -- I shall endeavor to grant you all a swift and dignified end.”

“Dignified my ass -- what do you lot even know of dignity!?” Flavia yelled as the Plegian commander retreated behind the enemy front. “We’ll show ‘em how _real_ warriors fight! Forward!”

Shepherds and Feroxis alike rallied to obey. Turning to glance back, Robin saw them spreading to engage, leaving the core of their army with a small defensive force should the enemy break through--

“Hey! Eyes forward!”

The tactician ducked as the horse leapt from a low ridge, its hooves splashing in the standing water below. Looking ahead toward the line of barbarians waiting to meet them, Robin snatched up his tome and fired an arc of lightning out across the waste, striking the nearest man square in the chest. As he prepared the next spell, Sully cut down another fighter, her steed racing into the chasm between the great vertebrae half-buried in the mire -- Robin fired the bolt at a lancer racing to halt her progress, staggering him as the cavalier continued her headlong rush--

A sound overhead.

“Get down!”

Sully pulled back hard on the reins, her horse rearing as a wyvern crashed into the earth just ahead of them. The beast roared in frustration as its rider brandished his axe, drawing it back as the cavalier prepared to attack. 

The tactician summoned up another spell as she lunged, the bolt crackling into the dragon’s open jaws as it tried to strike. The axe sailed far off course as the wyvern crumpled -- and the rider joined it as the cavalier’s sword cut through his side.

She did not turn back to ensure the fight was done. Robin resisted the impulse, forcing his thoughts on the path ahead: another wyvern perched atop the great bones, a cluster of lancers defended a stone fort -- gods, did she really intend to fight them all? Sully might be brash, but he’d not thought her _mad._

“We should wait for reinforcements to catch up,” he cautioned.

“Like hell!” she snarled back. “That sand rat’s _mine,_ you hear?”

Unfortunately. “We’re outmanned, if we don’t fall back--”

Too late. The cavalier’s sword cut down the barbarian rushing from the fort to meet them, and as her horse crashed through the lancers’ defense she sheathed her blade and snatched the spear from its place alongside her saddle. No help for it. Clinging to his spellbook as her mount turned back, Robin struggled to target the nearest threat--

Rough hands dragged him down.

The circles blazed as panic overwhelmed his senses. Whirling, Robin fired a spell at the man, narrowly missing as the berzerker jumped back. “Easy, lad! You’re safe now -- come on, this way--”

“Robin!”

He turned, searching the chaotic field for the cavalier. He had to get back, he had to help--

The Plegian took firm hold of his arm and pulled him into the fort.

Fear choked the tactician as the doors closed. Gods, who knew how many men were stationed within its walls -- he couldn’t fight them all, and the low ceiling kept him from calling down thunder -- his mind reeled, unable to focus on a spell -- not now, _not now,_ fight it--

“Calm down, lad.” 

Robin’s knees gave out. But the stranger’s grip held him up, guiding him to a seat. “Gods, I never expected the Ylisseans would take hostages. I’d thought better of them, but without their prince I suppose anything is possible…it’s all right. You’re safe now.”

The words seeped slowly into his consciousness as he struggled to breathe, burying his face in his hands. This man didn’t recognize him. He thought the tactician was simply a mage taken captive on another battlefield. This wasn’t a trap, but an attempted rescue.

But a fight still raged outside. Sully had been alone -- outnumbered, too far ahead of the main force -- gods, he couldn’t leave her--

“Eager, aren’t you?” the stranger sighed, pushing Robin back into the chair as the tactician staggered toward his feet. Removing his helm, the man knelt down, peering underneath the raised hood. “Do you know who I am, lad?”

Robin shook his head. “I’m General Mustafa, commander of the Plegian army’s western brigade. Where were you stationed? Eastern Plegia? The capital?”

The tactician shook his head again, finally managing a shaky gasp. “Did they hurt you?” the general pressed. 

“No.”

The word seemed to bring some small relief to the man. “Good. You’ve got nothing to worry about now, lad -- you’re safe here. We’ll be sending those Ylisseans to Grima--”

“Don’t hurt them.”

The plea came from somewhere deep, beyond logic and reason and conscious intent. The commander frowned, rising to his feet as Robin fought to pull himself together. 

“How long have they had you?”

“Don’t know.” He couldn’t grasp the truth, let alone fabricate something reasonable--

“You don’t look like one of the boys from the east brigade. Did they take you from one of the oasis villages?”

“No.”

“…where did you get that coat?”

“My mother.” Gods, what would she think if she knew where he was now?

“You’re Wren’s boy, aren’t you.” 

His heart stopped.

“How do you know my mother?” Robin whispered. 

“I should have guessed sooner,” Mustafa murmured. “All those years spent searching far and wide, and the boy just walks into Plegia with the Ylisseans--”

_“How do you know my mother?”_

The general fell silent, looking down at the tactician as he pulled the tome closer to his chest. “Where is your mother, lad?”

“With Grima. Ten years on.”

That seemed to surprise the commander. “I suppose that explains how you wound up here,” he muttered, drawing Grima’s mark. “I’m sorry to hear it. She was a good woman.”

“How do you know?”

“It was once my duty to protect her.”

Robin’s brow furrowed. “From what?”

“The war. She was the bride of the heirophant’s son, and Ylisse had invaded Plegia. She needed a guard as much as the king and the hierophant -- more, considering how she kept sneaking off,” Mustafa grumbled. “Then she disappeared, and her child with her. But you’ve returned at last -- your father will be glad to have you safely home--”

_“No!”_

The tactician bolted upright, staggering away from the commander. “I won’t go. I won’t go, you won’t take me, I _won’t--_ ”

“Easy, easy…” The general held his hands up, palms open and empty, as Robin pressed his back to the wall. He could fire from here, find a way out, he had to get back--

“Do you know what you are?”

The tactician clutched his marked hand. “I know what that man would make me.”

“Then why wouldn’t you return?”

Robin flinched inward as the general approached. “Do you know what would happen?”

“We would be safe,” Mustafa replied. “You’ve been a beacon of hope to every Plegian since the day you were born. You will deliver your people from oppression -- you will be the end of wars, the beginning of _peace_ for _thousands--_ ”

“I will cease to be.”

He fought to steady his breath as the footsteps stopped. “That’s not--”

“That man doesn’t want a savior. He wants a _weapon._ They’ve been trying to drag me back here for as long as I can remember, and always by _force._ He doesn’t want me, he wants a vessel -- given the chance, he would destroy my soul for that power.”

The commander did not speak. Drawing a deep, shaky breath, the tactician fought to collect his thoughts, calm his mind, find the incantation he’d lost in his panic -- he didn’t want to hurt this man, but if he had to…

“Lad, I am a soldier. My place is not to question my orders, but to carry them out. And for nigh on two decades, I’ve had a standing order to deliver the Heart of Grima to the hierophant.”

The spell leapt to the forefront of his mind, and the circles blazed around him. “I won’t go.”

“…she said the same thing, you know.”

The general sighed, backing away with hands still raised. “The night she left with you. I caught her leaving the castle -- she often snuck about after dark, when the guard was thin, but she’d been ill and close to death not a day before, so I was fit to be tied seeing her out there. I told her I would take her back, and she refused. Said she’d die if she stayed in the castle another night. But I’m a soldier. The soldier does not judge, lad. I told her as much. And she stood there in that coat, called up that spell, and told me she wouldn’t go.”

“So what did you do?” Robin whispered.

“…I looked away.”

The magic faded. “But you said--”

“It was nearly midnight. Dark. In her condition, no one would have believed she’d run off. And for all that she made me want to rip my beard out sometimes, I trusted her. She was a good woman. Came to the capital to help people -- thought that marrying the heirophant’s son would put her somewhere she could do more for the Grimleal. …I’ve thought about that night now and then, over the years. How she stole away her child, and the Grimleal hopes with it. And I think she was right: she wouldn’t have lived out the week if I’d taken her back.”

“…what will you do with me, then?”

Mustafa sighed. “Well, I can’t rightly say I’ve seen proof you’re the Six Eyes, can I? Just an honest mistake, lad. My family won’t be harmed for that.”

Turning, the commander moved deeper into the fort, gesturing for the tactician to follow. “There’s a door back here that leads to pass through the canyon. It’s been maintained as an exit and entry for scouts, in case of siege or spies keeping watch on the front. Use that, head north--”

Something crashed against the doors behind them. Dust sifted down from the supports as Mustafa moved back, pushing Robin behind him. “Go on, lad. I’ll cover for you.”

“But--”

Another blow and the doors strained against their hinges. “Lad, if you don’t go now--”

The doors flew open, the wood scorched and smoldering as a dark-haired sorceress folded her arms around her tome. He recognized her -- the woman from the capital, the one Chrom had recruited on the battlefield before--

“Get your hands off our tactician!”

He knew that voice. “Sully--”

Mustafa raised his axe, stepping forward to meet the cavalier as Libra slid to the ground from his place behind her saddle. Thank the gods for the monk.

“Ylisseans,” the commander called. “I am General Mustafa of Plegia. If you wish to keep your lives, then you must win them!”

“No--!”

They charged. Even as Robin tried to stop them, the general clashed with Libra, pushing the war monk back and turning aside before Sully’s sword could strike. But a sudden blaze of light staggered the Plegian -- the spell blazed around the sorceress as Mustafa turned with axe raised--

The weapon clattered to the floor. And the general fell to his knees, the cavalier’s blade in his back. “Well done, Ylisseans,” he muttered. “Please…spare my men…”

“We will do what we can,” Robin heard Libra murmur.

And then Sully grabbed him in a crushing embrace. “Gods, you’re a fucking _idiot,_ ” she huffed. “You could’ve gotten killed, you ninny, what the _fuck_ were you doing, getting grabbed like that, I could strangle you myself--”

“You’re going to crush me if you don’t let go,” the tactician wheezed. It still took the cavalier a moment to let go. 

“I ain’t apologizin’,” she muttered. Not that he had expected her to.

“We’d best hurry,” Libra called. “I expect our allies will have the way cleared of enemy soldiers by now, and we don’t want them to leave without us.”

“They’d better not, unless they want to be hexed,” the sorceress grumbled.

“The main force has already gone ahead?”

Sully patted his shoulder. “We couldn’t leave without our tactician, could we?”

Robin smiled faintly. “Thank you.” As the cavalier moved to mount her horse, the tactician approached the commander’s remains, drawing Grima’s mark. “I’m sorry I can’t give you a burial,” he whispered. “But may Grima take you even still, and may your next life be kinder than this one.”

“Hey! You comin’?” Sully asked, reining her steed in alongside him and offering her hand down. As she helped him up behind her, Robin cast a final glance at the Plegian general. He’d tried to save the tactician, as best he could. And his final words were a plea for the sake of his men.

A good man had died this day. Plegia was poorer for it. But Robin would not forget…and someday, gods willing, he could help bring peace to these people -- a lasting peace, forged not by avenging divines, but by good men and women.

But first, they needed to save themselves.

***

“Gods, I hate hiding like this.”

Sumia glanced down at Chrom as he craned his neck to see the fighting around them. “It’s not really hiding, Captain,” she protested. “It’s more like…avoiding combat.”

“It’s hiding.”

“But it’s for the sake of your health!”

“I feel like a godsdamn craven, hanging back like this,” he muttered.

“Everyone’s out there fighting hard to protect you. Don’t let that go to waste by throwing yourself into the battle and getting killed,” she chided. That just made him look gloomier. “…and if you’re a craven for hanging back, then I guess I am, too. N-not that I don’t like being here with you, of course,” she added. Because she did. Even in the middle of combat, she felt braver and stronger with him beside her, knowing that she was protecting him with every blow she dealt.

He smiled a little. “It would be a lot worse without the company,” he agreed.

Sumia would have tripped if she weren’t on her pegasus. Thank the gods her mount had surer footing.

“So what are we going to do once we get out of Plegia?” she asked.

“We regroup,” the prince said. “Take the time to recover. The Feroxis need to mourn their lost warriors, and the injured need time to rest.”

“I hope that includes you, Captain.”

“Yes, me, too,” he chuckled. “Lissa’s probably going to stand guard outside my room with Frederick to make sure I don’t sneak off somewhere.”

“You’ll still be allowed visitors, though, won’t you? Maybe I could come keep you company.”

His smile made her heart skip. “I’d like that,” he agreed. “And after that…we’ll regroup and plan our next move. This war won’t be over until the Mad King is dead and buried.”

Just like that, her mood crashed back down. “I wish we didn’t have to,” she murmured.

“So do I,” Chrom sighed. “But Gangrel won’t settle this without bloodshed. We brought an army into Plegia. …I gave him exactly what he wanted all along.”

“…I think you gave him more than he expected,” the pegasus knight remarked. “We escaped because the Plegian people held Gangrel’s soldiers back. Maybe…if we’re lucky, we won’t have to fight much longer.”

“I’d been hoping the last battle would end the war. That didn’t turn out so well.” The captain strained for another look at the fighting, and Sumia sighed, twisting a lock of hair around her finger.

“I think we’re closer now than we were before,” she mumbled. “What you did was amazing, Captain. I really think we’ll have peace soon, because of you.”

“How can you be sure?” he asked.

“My fortune told me so.”

Chrom raised an eyebrow, and the pegasus knight felt the blush warming her cheeks. “Fortune?”

“Y-yes. Uhm. I-I tell flower fortunes. Especially before a battle. Or when I’m worried about something.” Or someone. “I’ll read a flower fortune, and it helps.”

“…what did your fortune say?” he asked.

“I asked if the war would be over soon, and it said yes. See?” Opening her saddle bag, she removed her latest book and leafed through to the pressed flower between the pages, all but its last petal gone. The prince took it as she offered it down to him, turning it over once or twice before handing it back.

“So how do flower fortunes work?”

“Oh, it’s easy! You just take a flower, like this…” Rummaging around in her other satchel, Sumia removed a slightly wilted daisy, rubbing one of the soft petals between her fingers. “Then you ask it what you want to know.”

“Can it be anything?”

“Well, it has to have two possibilities. Usually questions you can answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ to are good, like…’will the captain stay safe until we get to the wagons?’ And then you go through the petals -- yes…no…yes…no…” She felt him watching her as she plucked the flower bare, but tried not to think about it. She didn’t want to mess up the fortune and get a bad outcome. “…no…yes…no…and the last petal is your answer -- yes!”

He was smiling as she held the flower out to him. “So I guess I don’t have anything to worry about.”

“Right! Because I’m going to make sure that it comes true.”

“…so they’re not always right?”

“…well, sometimes you get a bad outcome,” Sumia admitted. “And when that happens, you have to work hard to change it into something good. And the good ones, you work hard to make sure it stays that way!”

“…that’s a fine way of seeing things,” he chuckled. “I might ask you to read another for me before our next battle.”

“R-really? Cordelia says that they’re a waste of time and I should stop doing them -- please don’t tell her I did this one,” she whispered, tucking the flower into her armor. 

“I swear, I won’t say a word,” the prince agreed. “I don’t see what’s wrong with them, though--“

A cry rose from the edge of the troop. Sumia looked up, scanning the ground for signs of trouble--

“Wyvern!”

The shout brought her attention up to the dark shape rapidly approaching from the rear. If it came down on the supply train it could destroy everything, and with it flying so high the Feroxis couldn’t engage…

“Wait here, Captain.”

“What? Wait, Sumia, you can’t--”

She smiled at him, hefting her lance as she took up the reins. “I’ll be back before you know it.” And with a cluck of her tongue, the pegasus bounded into the air, spiraling up into the sky to meet the dragon as it banked away from a volley of arrows.

The wyvern began to circle over the flank of the procession as Sumia reached its height, her mount fighting to maintain altitude through the steady rain. “You know, I’d heard that a couple rookie pegasus knights managed to sneak away from the slaughter at the border,” the dragon rider called. “Looks like the rumors were true.”

“Turn back now,” the pegasus knight shouted back.

“Or what?” the man jeered. “You gonna poke me with your stick, little girl?”

“I don’t want to hurt you--”

“You talk like you could even touch us.”

Her grip tightened on the lance as he sneered. “I won’t warn you again. Turn back.”

“Make me.”

The pegasus flapped hard as Sumia flicked the reins, gaining a few precious feet of height before swooping toward the dragon--

The wyvern beat its wings and vanished into the clouds.

Banking hard, Sumia scanned the grey sky -- there had to be a sign somewhere, a wingtip, a nose, a tail, _something_ \-- oh, gods, what if it was heading to the front of the line? Turning toward the front, she urged her pegasus forward--

Pain ripped through her arm.

She didn’t see the attack. Didn’t see the weapon. Didn’t see the dragon. But the blow knocked her out of the saddle -- she barely managed to catch the horn with one arm before she joined her lance in the long fall to the ground. She tried to pull herself back up--

Her arm wouldn’t move. Agony burned from her shoulder to her fingers when she tried, her one good hand shaking on the saddle horn. She could feel her pegasus trying to stay aloft, wings flapping around her, wet feathers fighting against the constant rain -- they were going down, they were going to crash, and the wyvern knight would fall on the troop --

_“Sumia!!”_

The pegasus knight looked down. Had she imagined that voice? The soldiers all looked so small from up here, she couldn’t…

…no. She _could_ see the captain, standing on top of a supply sled. She’d recognize him anywhere. 

He was looking to her.

Her fortune. She could feel the flower, tucked under her plate. It had said he would stay safe.

 _You’re the hero now._ That’s what Robin had said. _She_ was the hero. _She_ was the defender of the weak and the injured.

She could do this. She _could._

The pegasus knight clicked her tongue and her mount tucked her wings, turning into a steep dive. The descent lifted Sumia just enough to pull herself back up into the saddle. Snatching up the reins, she gave a quick tug, and the pegasus’ wings opened -- and just in time to avoid crashing into the ground or the warring soldiers.

Another tug on the reins turned the winged horse back to the sky, using the momentum of the dive to climb against the rain. The wyvern had left the safety of the clouds -- but as she and her pegasus soared toward them, the dragon’s wings flailed, fighting to return to cover.

Not this time.

Gripping the saddle with her legs alone, the pegasus knight took up her spare lance and braced it tight under her arm. She could see the dragon’s scales, they were so close, the plates of its chest flexing as it flapped its wings -- she could see its rider, axe in hand, his expression unreadable under the mask --

The pegasus rammed the wyvern hard, driving Sumia’s lance through its scales. The beast shrieked in agony as they fell apart -- but while the pegasus settled into an awkward glide, the dragon did not right itself.

She couldn’t watch. But even as she hid her face in her mount’s mane, she couldn’t block out the sounds. The beast hit the ground with an unmistakable, indescribably sickening noise that made her stomach heave. But she fought it back, clinging tight to the reins with shaking fingers as her pegasus drifted in for a landing.

“Sumia!!”

She smiled, lifting her head as Chrom rushed to meet her. “H-hello, Captain,” she mumbled. Are you alright?”

“Now’s not the time -- gods, your arm--”

She didn’t dare look at it. “Was the fortune ri-ight?”

As she blinked the rain out of her eyes, she saw the prince’s smile. “It was.”

“Good.”

She’d managed to block out the pain for a little while. But now it came flooding back as she struggled to dismount, gritting her teeth against it--

“Take it easy.”

The captain’s voice. And his hands, easing her out of the saddle and down to the ground. His cape tucked gently around her shoulders, warm even though it was soaked through from the rain. His arm around her, guiding her through the storm. 

In spite of the pain, she smiled, leaning against him and letting the rest of the world fade away.

_You really are the hero now, Sumia._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robin's mother is a fascinating subject, since we know so little about her beyond Validar's brief mention and the facts the game presents to us. At this point I could probably write a whole story focusing on her life before she fled to Ferox. Maybe at some point I will. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been sticking with this through the delays! The next chapter is in progress, and I _hope_ this time that things will go smoothly.


	16. Knell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the full might of the Feroxi army behind them, the Shepherds prepare to face Gangrel's army again -- and find that the Mad King's forces have abandoned him in his final hour. The war nears its end, but it comes at a heavy cost...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Warnings: Mild Language, Blood, Violence**
> 
>   
>  We're wrapping up the Ylisse-Plegia War! Which means that change is fast approaching...
> 
> More perspective shifts this chapter. Dashes (-) still indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

As promised, the wagons had been waiting beyond the ravine. 

The journey to Ferox was blessedly swift compared to their advance through Plegia’s desert. The horses kept a steady pace through the rest of the day and much of the night, stopping to rest only after they passed through the Longfort gates -- and even that respite proved brief, as new wagons were readied by midmorning to transport the khans, their personal guard, and the Shepherds back to the central stronghold. 

Basilio confided as they parted ways that he had left scouts stationed across the full length of the Longfort, ready to relay word back as Gangrel prepared his next move. Part of Robin was impressed by the west khan’s forethought: in the final days of the assault, he’d narrowed his focus only to escaping with as many men breathing as possible, rather than looking ahead to the next engagement. He sensed that the khan had a great deal of wisdom to share. 

But at the moment, the tactician had pressing business to attend to. 

By mid-afternoon he had spent what meager coin he’d been saving, purchasing a replacement for his worn Thunder tome, new ink and quills for updating his maps, and the payment he owed his informant -- plus a small something for himself. Finding the thief proved far less challenging than he’d feared, as Gaius fell into step beside him as Robin made his way back into the fortress. 

“How’s it goin’, Bubbles?”

“Have I asked yet why you picked that name?”

“Nope.”

“Would you tell me if I did?”

“Nope.”

He’d expected as much. “I take it you have news?”

“More or less,” the thief shrugged. “Lost track of most of the Feroxi troops, but I figure they’re doin’ Feroxi stuff now that we’re here.”

“Agreed. Anything else?”

“A couple Shepherds are holed up in the infirmary -- Sully threw enough of a fit that they’re lettin’ her out, though.”

That sounded like the cavalier. In spite of her stoicism, it had become painfully evident as they reached the safety of Basilio’s reinforcements that her reckless charge had cost her. Libra’s staff might have served to carry her through combat, but she needed rest to fully recover…which, apparently, she disagreed with. 

He would have to talk with her later. “Anyone else?”

“Nobody that’s getting’ out yet. Padre was hangin’ around doin’ blessings, but I don’t think he was actually hurt. His Lordship swears he’s dyin’ to any lady that’ll listen, which is pretty rich. Oh, an’ Stumbles is laid up, too.”

“How does she fare?” He’d caught only a glimpse of the pegasus knight before they piled into the wagons -- she’d looked pale and unbalanced, held upright more by Chrom’s arm than her own strength. He’d heard whispers here and there about an aerial battle…

“Considerin’ she went hoof to talon with a wyvern and lived, I’d say she’s doin’ damn good. Word is her arm got busted up pretty bad, but none of the healers said anything about takin’ it off, so I’d say that’s a plus.”

He couldn’t agree more. “Thank you, Gaius. You’ve been an invaluable help -- and as agreed…”

The thief perked up immediately as Robin offered a large parcel wrapped in bark and hide to him. “These more molasses cookies? Please say these’re more molasses cookies.”

“They are indeed,” the tactician chuckled, watching Gaius tear past the twine with gusto. “That should cover what I owe from the campaign.”

“Bubbles, it’s a real pleasure doin’ business with you,” the thief mumbled around a cookie. “These fresh?”

“Baked at noon,” Robin agreed. 

“The Feroxis make a damn fine cookie. Oh, hey, before I go -- word of advice? You might wanna keep an eye out for Sunshine.” 

The tactician frowned. “Sunshine?”

“You know, the new girl we picked up in Plegia. Little miss sunshine and rainbows.”

“…the dark mage?” 

“Yeah, her.”

“Uhm. Alright. Has she been acting odd?”

“She asked me to bring her some of your hair.”

Robin felt his skin crawl at the implications. “Why?”

“Hell if I know. When I asked her she just gave me this really creepy laugh.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her I don’t take sinister chuckles for an answer and then she threatened to hex me. But I’m pretty slippery, so I’m not expecting much -- you, on the other hand, might wanna watch your back. Sounds like she’s got it in for ya.”

“I appreciate the warning,” the tactician shuddered, digging through his pockets. “I should have a few candies somewhere--”

“Keep your sugar, Bubbles. That one’s on me. Just some advice, one friend to another.”

Robin smiled at the grinning thief. “Thank you. …you’re a fine friend to have, Gaius.”

“Glad somebody thinks so. See ya ‘round, Bubbles.” And with a cheery salute, he was gone, vanishing around the nearest corner. 

Still, that was unsettling news. A dark mage -- and not only that, a Grimleal -- looking for hexing material? He’d need to be very careful in the future. 

But he had other, brighter things to occupy his attention for the moment. 

Continuing down the curving halls, the tactician knocked lightly on a familiar door. “Who is it?” Chrom’s voice called. 

“Not Frederick.”

“Then hurry up and get in here.”

Robin slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind him as the prince sat up in bed. “Are you feeling better?” the tactician asked, sitting beside him. 

“Much, now that I have some decent company,” the captain chuckled. “Where have you been?”

“Here and there,” Robin replied, removing a small parcel from his coat. “I had a few errands to run in the market and picked up a treat. Cookie?” 

Chrom cast a wary glance at the package as the tactician unwrapped it. “Are they Feroxi cookies?”

“Yes, but they’re not bitter,” Robin chuckled. “They’re a source of national pride -- oftentimes Feroxi warriors will eat them before a challenge to give them an extra burst of energy. There’s a bakery in the eastern market that makes the best molasses cookies in all Ferox -- I think so, anyway.”

“I’m not much for sweets,” the prince said. 

“I thought I would offer.” The tactician took one himself, savoring the rich, dark sweetness of it -- gods, he’d forgotten how good they were, his memories never seemed to do them justice--

The kiss caught him entirely off guard. He froze, warmth flooding his face as Chrom’s lips touched his own. “I thought you didn’t care for sweets,” he whispered. 

“Sorry,” the prince chuckled. “I got carried away. You looked like you were enjoying it.”

“…these were one of the bright spots in my childhood,” Robin murmured. “My mother would always buy one for me when we came here. Even when we didn’t have much gold to spare, she would keep a coin aside for this. It seems silly, I know, but--”

“It doesn’t.” Chrom’s arm slipped around him, and the tactician leaned carefully back against him. “…so I’ve been meaning to ask. What is Grima’s Night?”

“It’s the longest night of the year,” Robin said. “The legends say that Naga struck Grima down on the day the fell dragon’s power was weakest -- the longest day of the year -- but that Grima’s strength continues to ebb and flow through the earth with the seasons. The longest night of the year -- Grima’s Night -- is when her powers are at their strongest. It’s…a night when the dead have power.”

“…is that why Gangrel tried to trick us?”

“That would be my guess. In part, at least.”

“What kind of madman throws his own people to the enemy like that?”

“The self-serving kind,” the tactician muttered. 

They sat together in silence for a moment. Robin wrapped his small parcel of cookies and tucked them away in his pocket again, trying not to think about what had happened in Plegia or what was still to come. He wanted to enjoy what time he had with the prince before…

“Do you think I made the right choice?”

The tactician glanced over, smiling as he folded his hand over Chrom’s fingers. “I do.”

The prince leaned his head against Robin’s. “So what happens now? I’m not marching us back into Plegia.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” the tactician chuckled. “Right now we should take this opportunity to rest.”

“Does that include you?” the captain asked. 

“At some point, I suppose,” Robin agreed. 

“Why not now?”

“Because I have other matters to tend to. Updating maps--”

“Do it later.”

“--looking over equipment--”

“Let Frederick do it. Or Cordelia.”

“--checking on the injured…”

No protest. Telling. 

“Is that why you’re here?” he asked. 

“No,” the tactician murmured, resting his head against Chrom’s shoulder as the prince pulled him closer. 

“Good answer. …how long are you staying, then?”

“Until Frederick gets back. I’m surprised he’s taking so long, actually.”

“I may have suggested a few errands to him.”

“Such as?”

“You’ll just have to wait and see.”

“That doesn’t bode well.”

“Don’t worry,” the captain chuckled. “It’s just some extra supplies. Spellbooks and staves, mostly.”

“Gods, he’ll be gone all night.”

“That was the point.”

…well, not having to worry about the great knight was nice, for a change of pace. Pushing his other concerns out of mind as best he could, the tactician settled, smiling as Chrom’s fingers laced with his own. The warmth hadn’t quite returned to his hands yet -- but they were no longer cold and still in Robin’s grip. That alone did his heart and mind a world of good. 

“So what do you plan to do after the war?” the prince asked. 

He hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. “I don’t know. Will the Shepherds have need of a tactician if there are no enemies to fight?”

“There are always brigands,” Chrom reminded him. “But what would you want to do, given the choice?”

“…I don’t know. It’s not as though I have many worthwhile skills to market.”

“Magic?”

“Beyond healing with staves, magic has few applications outside of defense or academic study.”

“I could always use a new advisor.”

“I’m afraid I’m ill-equipped to deal with domestic matters. I’m a strategist and historian, not a politician.”

“…do you enjoy being a historian?”

The tactician smiled softly. “Those who do not learn from their history are doomed to repeat it. I’d rather not see past mistakes repeated. …and knowing where we come from can help guide us to where we want to be.”

“Well…I can see if there’s an opening for ‘court historian’ once all this is settled,” Chrom offered. 

“…what does a court historian do?”

“I have no idea,” the prince admitted. “But it sounds like something that the halidom would need, doesn’t it?”

“I might be biased, but I’m inclined to agree,” Robin laughed. He had to admit, it would be nice to do something that didn’t carry lives in the balance. Something…settled. 

“I’ll look into it, then,” Chrom murmured. “Compared to everything else waiting on the other side of this war, I hope _that_ will be easy to resolve.”

“Don’t worry just yet about what’s coming after. You, out of all of us, need to focus on winning this war.”

“What about you? You were just talking about what you’ll do--”

“That doesn’t mean the next battle is far from my mind,” Robin sighed. “What comes after…is a momentary distraction from the present. But we have much to accomplish before that fantasy becomes real.”

“You really need to relax.”

“I’ll be glad to, once peace is assured -- until then, the troops are better off with a paranoid strategist, not one whose thoughts are miles from the battlefield.”

“…I wish I could fault that logic,” Chrom grumbled. “If this war doesn’t end soon, you’ll worry yourself into the grave.”

The tactician grinned, taking to his feet again. “Perhaps. But there’s no need to take foolish risks, either. I’ll coordinate with the khans and begin devising a strategy.”

“Don’t leave yet.”

The captain caught Robin’s hand, but the tactician only smiled, leaning close to touch a kiss to Chrom’s cheek. “I’ll be back. I need to visit the infirmary while there’s still daylight, or that Feroxi medic won’t let me in.” Or out, depending.

The prince leaned back, seeming satisfied with the response. As Robin reached the door, though, he sat up again. “Do you know if Sumia’s still in the infirmary?”

“As of this morning, yes,” the tactician agreed. “I doubt she’ll be leaving anytime soon, given her wounds…”

Chrom frowned, a hint of red coloring his cheeks. “That cookie you offered. Could you give it to her instead?”

He’d already planned on sharing. But the request brought a soft smile to his face, even still. “I’ll be sure to tell her it’s from you, Captain,” he chuckled. And that would doubtless lift her spirits more than anything else the tactician had planned. 

Slipping out into the hall again, Robin made his way through the curving passages to what the Feroxis had dubbed ‘The Ward,’ one of the few areas shared between the eastern and western halves of the fortress aside from the meal hall. Entering through the eastern doorway, the tactician glanced around the mostly empty room. It could easily fit the entire force they’d taken to Plegia, and perhaps another company besides. Arrowslits spaced along the far wall let in narrow bands of sunlight, while the small hearths set between them kept the worst of the chill at bay--

“Well, look who it is.”

Robin flinched, glancing sheepishly at the medic sauntering across the infirmary. “Am I puttin’ you in one of these beds?”

“N-no, ma’am,” he replied. “I’m just here to visit Sumia.”

“Pretty sure you belong in the cot next to her,” the woman grumbled. “She’s over there, by the far window. Don’t make trouble.”

“Yes, ma’am.” As the woman stepped aside, the tactician hurried past her to the furthest row of beds, settling in the chair beside the only one he found occupied. “Hello, Sumia.”

The pegasus knight looked worn and weary, in spite of her smile. “Hello, Robin. What brings you here?”

“Checking on our hero’s recovery,” he replied, drawing the parcel out of his pocket and unwrapping it again. “And I come bearing gifts. From the Captain,” he murmured, holding a cookie out to her.

Sumia’s eyes lit up, a flush of pink rising in her face. “R-really?”

“He specifically requested that you have this,” Robin agreed. She took it gently, savoring the treat as the tactician dug through the other pockets of his coat. “I also brought you this,” he said, holding out the book he’d collected from her pegasus’ saddlebags. “I don’t imagine there’s a lot to do, here in The Ward, so…I thought a book might help.”

“Which one is it?” she asked, trying to reach for it -- and wincing as her injured arm shifted. 

That would be a problem.

“It’s the one you loaned me, actually,” he said, glancing around the room again. The nearest cots were empty, and the medic had retreated to the far side of the infirmary. “ _Wyvern Wars: Terror at High Noon._ I hope you haven’t read it yet.”

“No, not yet. I was about to start the first volume of _Mad Tales of a Bloodthirsty Falcon Knight,_ but…”

“Then I hope you don’t mind an interruption,” the tactician chuckled, settling more comfortably in the chair and crossing his ankles out in front of him as he flipped to the first page. This seemed the least he could do to help her pass the time. 

“The wind blew hot across the bluffs of Wyvern Valley, carrying the scent of dust and danger,” he read aloud. “The dragons were restless in their roosts…”

***

Within the week, Lissa, Libra, and the Feroxi medics had all declared that Chrom was fit and well enough to fight again. And just in time for the return of Basilio’s scouts, announcing that the whole of the Plegian army was gathering at the border waste south of the Longfort.

That was not the news anyone wanted to hear. 

“So what now, oaf?” Flavia growled. 

“Don’t look at me,” Basilio grumbled back. “I’m not in charge.”

“I picked a fine time to regain the full throne,” the east khan muttered. 

Robin remained quiet, leaning over the map he’d spread over the table. Chrom watched his fingers moving across the parchment, the words he traded with the scout inaudible under the noise around them. But the tactician’s frown did not bode well.

“This is my fault.”

The rest of the room quieted. Robin glanced up, and for once Chrom could not meet his eye. “That’s not true,” the tactician said into the silence. 

“It is, though,” Chrom argued, gritting his teeth. “This wouldn’t be happening if I hadn’t rushed into Plegia.”

“To be fair, I don’t believe you had much choice in that regard,” Robin pointed out. 

“You can’t just sit on your ass after an assassination,” Basilio agreed. 

“Gotta answer royal blood with royal blood,” Flavia added.

“And with Gangrel pulling his forces back into Plegia, the only way to confront him was to follow,” the tactician continued. 

“Even though that’s what he wanted?” the prince asked.

“That’s what you have a tactician for. To foil enemy plots.” Even under the hood, Chrom saw Robin’s frown deepen. “Though you likely would have done better with a tactician that didn’t fail you at the most crucial moment.”

“You did your best, Robin,” the captain replied. “And you have my thanks. It’s my own shortcomings that haunt me now.” When it had mattered most -- standing against Gangrel, and again in the retreat -- he had been powerless…

“What happened is not your fault, though--”

“I put all of your lives in danger. And what do we have to show for it? The Mad King still lives, and now his army is ready to invade Ferox. All of that for nothing.”

The tactician sighed, pushing his hood back as he ran a hand through his pale hair. “Chrom. Listen to me. …look at me.”

The prince’s attention lingered on the map, Robin’s fingers spread across the parchment. He waited, but the tactician did not speak again.

The tactician moved, his hand sliding across the page as he stepped closer to the captain. And closer, his fingers curling beside Chrom’s on the table. The room around them had gone still. If not for the sound of breathing at his back, he’d have thought they were alone.

He looked over and found Robin watching him. “I’ve had to face my shortcomings in this campaign, too,” the tactician murmured. “I think every man and woman in this room can say they’ve found weakness in me. But that’s true of everyone. We are all flawed. And alone, those flaws make us weak. But when we stand together -- when our strengths defend another’s weakness, as they defend ours -- we are so much more than our individual talents. Yes, you will still fall sometimes. But when that happens, I’ll be there to pull you back up again. …you don’t have to become your sister, you know. Fight for her ideals, for what she believed in, but…be true to yourself, as well. The people will look to you for hope. You have to give it in your own way.”

“And what if I can’t?” Gangrel’s army seemed proof enough that his last efforts had ended in failure. What if he had inherited the worst of their father? What if his only path to peace was the one he carved through an enemy line? “What if I’m not worthy of Emmeryn’s ideals? …Robin, what if I drag you down with me?” he breathed. How close had they come already to losing the tactician and setting that grim fate in motion? 

Robin smiled. 

It was the last thing Chrom had expected. “If you aren’t worthy now, you’ll keep at it until you are,” the tactician replied. “And if we both fall down…well, that’s what friends are for, isn’t it?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder. 

As the prince turned, he saw the Shepherds standing together a few steps away. The smiles they wore, and the words they spoke, overflowed with confidence -- not in themselves, but in him. In the purpose he had united them for. 

They still believed in him. 

“…thank you,” Chrom murmured. “Your words mean more than you could know. My Shepherds…my warriors…there is work to be done,” he announced, his hand resting on Falchion’s hilt. “Gangrel must be stopped so that peace can once again reign in Ylisse. Will you help me?”

Their approval was immediate and unanimous. They all had something to say, each Shepherd trying to speak over the rest so that the words were lost in the commotion…but the message remained clear in their faces. 

His heart swelled in the face of their faith. “Thank you all. Truly. You honor me with your fealty.” He bowed to them, tightening his grip on his sword as he straightened again. “I will not falter again,” he swore. “We shall answer this outrage! The Mad King _must_ be stopped!”

“Right!” Flavia clapped. “It’s time for ol’ Gangrel to get a dose of his own vulnerary. The whole of the Feroxi army is yours to send crashing against him!”

“You young folk,” Basilio laughed. “Your passions run so hot! If I had any grey hairs, you would’ve singed ‘em right off. Count me in!”

“I-I’d like to go, too. If I may.”

The soft voice gave Chrom a moment’s pause. A small woman draped in gauze and veils stepped out of Basiio’s shadow, fussing with her bracelets rather than meeting the prince’s eye. He recognized her, if only vaguely: she had been waiting for them at the wagons when they crossed the ravine, keeping close to the west khan as the soldiers regrouped and prepared for their escape. He wasn’t sure he’d even caught her name. 

Before he could speak, the woman drew another breath. “The exalt did me a kindness, once,” she mumbled. 

“She did?” 

“Y-yes, sire. It would honor me to have a part in giving her justice! Although…all I can do is dance…and I’m not so skilled at that, to be honest…” The dancer’s voice faded with every word as she shrank further into herself, trying to hide in Basilio’s shadow. 

The west khan, though, only pushed her back into the light. “She’s too modest!” he chuckled. “Olivia here’s a Feroxi treasure. You won’t meet a finer dancer in all the realms! Her moves inspire soldiers to work twice as hard. You’d do well to bring her along…Commander.”

“Commander?” Chrom repeated. “What happened to ‘boy’?”

“You’ve earned your way up from that name, I think,” the west khan said, patting the prince firmly on the shoulder. “Now, where were we? Oh, yes, I was just about to start cracking skulls!”

“Hear hear!” the east khan cheered. 

“Flavia will lead me and the other Feroxis in a head-on assault,” Basilio announced. “That should buy you enough time to take down Gangrel. Hear that, boy? You get the fun part!”

Chrom wasn’t sure he would call that ‘fun.’ ‘Necessary,’ yes. And what happened to that promotion? “I thought you weren’t going to call me--”

“You and Robin have my every confidence,” the west khan continued over the prince’s protest. “You’re a born leader, and he has a knack for guiding troops to victory. You both have some growing to do yet…but I can already see you’ll grow tall.”

High praise, coming from such a warrior. “Thanks, Basilio.”

The west khan grinned, clapping his hands together with enough force to silence the room. “All right, enough talk -- let’s get to it! Gangrel may try to hit us while we’re still licking our wounds.”

“Let him try,” Chrom growled. “This time, I’m ready to dethrone the Mad King once and for all!”

\-----

The khans made good on their word. In a matter of days, Feroxi solders from every corner of the realm amassed at the western border, a force large enough to rival the Plegian army assembling beyond the Longfort. Rather than risk an attack by night, the troops camped behind the gates, ready to make the final march come morning.

The next day might be their last. Their last battle, or their last breaths. And if he had learned anything from Flavia, nothing raised morale quite like a party. 

As the Shepherds finished their final duties and turned to their suppers, Chrom gave the order to break open the crates Frederick had found in the market: two dozen bottles of fine Ylissean stout, tested and approved by the captain himself. That brought a round of cheers from every native, and an appreciative nod from the rest. 

Their last meal was hardly grand. But between the company and the drinks, no one seemed bothered, and spirits were high as they retreated to their tents. All but Chrom, who sat by the fire and looked out at the wall stretching as far as he could see. The last barrier they had to cross. 

How many soldiers would lose their lives on the plains beyond? How many families would mourn in the days to come -- Feroxi and Plegian? How many of the Shepherds would not return from that field? How many condolences would he need to give on the return to Ylisse?

Try as he might, he could not banish those thoughts. Luck had been scarce lately -- so as Robin had once said, he needed to prepare for the worst…and pray for the best. 

A shadow moved between the tents.

The captain glanced up, smiling as the tactician approached the fire. “Did your meeting go well?” he asked, holding out an unopened bottle. 

“As well as expected,” Robin sighed, taking it and rolling it between his hands. “Flavia and Basilio have approved the plans for tomorrow. They’ll make the first charge from the Longfort, occupying the bulk of Gangrel’s forces, while the Shepherds move in from the east, flanking the conflict and striking the heart of their command.”

Chrom stood and gestured for the tactician to join him as he moved away from the low fire. Robin did not hesitate, following close behind as the captain entered his own tent and gestured toward the table in the corner. Drawing the map from his breast pocket, the tactician smoothed it across the desk, pointing out various landmarks to the prince standing beside him. “The khans’ forces will strike here,” he explained, tapping the section of the Longfort directly north of the mire. “The Shepherds are stationed further east, and once we leave the gate we should be able to circumvent the Feroxi battlefield entirely to attack the enemy’s camp. Basilio’s scouts confirmed that the Plegian army has fortified their main encampment -- and that Gangrel himself is likely present.”

“At least he’ll be easy to hunt down,” Chrom growled.

Though that came with its own share of troubles.

“Anything else?” the prince asked. 

“Only that Flavia will send word when we’re clear to move,” Robin said. 

“Good. Did you eat before you left?”

“They insisted. And then kept giving me more. I would have been back sooner if they hadn’t heaped on that third portion.”

The captain laughed. “Well, at least you’re fed. Now try to relax. You’ve done more than enough for one day.”

Taking a seat among the cushions of his makeshift bed, Chrom motioned toward the place beside him. And though he did pause, the tactician still joined him, pushing his hood back as he smoothed his unkempt hair. Taking the bottle out of Robin’s hand, the prince worked the cork free and offered it back.

“Thank you,” he murmured. But he made no move to drink, instead rolling it back and forth between his palms. 

“Are you alright?” Chrom asked. 

The tactician glanced at him, mustering up a faint smile. “Fine. I’m just not much for drinking.”

“Bad experience with drinks?”

“Bad experiences with drunks.”

He’d nearly forgotten that night. The men on the street, throwing jeers and insults. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking--”

“I don’t mean to seem unappreciative,” Robin murmured. “I’m just uncomfortable with it. Especially before a battle, when I’ll need my wits about me.”

“I understand,” the captain assured him, taking the bottle back and setting it aside. And then he slipped his arms around the tactician, pulling him gently closer. This could be their last night. He couldn’t let it go to waste. 

“Chrom…”

The prince kissed him, pulling Robin down into the blankets. The taste of dark molasses lingered on his lips, sweet and more intoxicating than the stout. Sifting his fingers through the tactician’s hair, Chrom unfastened the brass clasp at Robin’s throat…

…and stopped as the tactician touched his cheek with shaking fingers. 

“Robin?”

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry, I don’t--”

“When was the last time you slept?” He hadn’t been paying attention. He should have noticed the dark rings under the tactician’s eyes, at the very least. Robin had been throwing all his efforts into the strategy for this engagement, pulled back and forth between the khans and the Shepherds -- and by now, the prince knew all too well how little and how poorly the tactician slept under such pressure. 

The silence that met his question only confirmed those suspicions. “You can’t keep doing this to yourself,” Chrom sighed, wrapping a blanket around the both of them. 

“I can sleep once this is all over,” Robin mumbled. 

“You’ll be _dead_ before this is all over if you don’t rest,” the captain shot back. “Now go to sleep.”

The tactician’s only protest was a faint murmur as he settled in Chrom’s arms. Pressing a kiss to Robin’s forehead, the prince tightened his embrace. Not what he’d had in mind for the night. But perhaps this was fitting. Quiet affection. Chaste. Uncomplicated. An end as simple as the beginning.

***

They rallied with the dawn, marching through the Longfort gates and taking up positions in the rocky hills overlooking the Feroxi battlefield. The khans had yet to make their move, but the Plegian army had already occupied the field…

Robin watched the distant soldiers, their ranks in turmoil. Curious. Mad though he certainly was, Gangrel’s army had never been disorderly. Had something happened?

Turning back to the Shepherds, the tactician paused to watch them for a few moments. They spoke quietly amongst themselves, checking their arms as they waited for word to move. Ready at any moment for the captain’s order. The prince himself stood slightly apart from his soldiers, in conversation with Sumia -- who crouched to pick a small flower, plucking its petals to the last before offering the stem with a brilliant smile. And Chrom, as he accepted it, returned her cheer. 

“I have no idea what that was about, but I am very curious,” Robin remarked as the captain moved to join him. 

“What? This?” He held up what remained of the flower, tucking it into the clasp of his cape. “Sumia does flower fortunes. I wanted to know how this battle will turn out.”

“And?”

“Victory will be ours, apparently. If we fight for it.”

The tactician smiled. “As it should be. …there’s something going on in the Plegian ranks,” he added, turning back to the field. Chrom shaded his eyes against the early light as Robin lowered his hood. In the short time since his attention wandered, the chaos had only mounted. Soldiers, alone and in groups, were retreating from the field as the first companies of Feroxi warriors left the Longfort gates. 

“What in Naga’s name is happening down there?” the prince breathed.

The tactician could hazard a guess. 

“Milord!”

They turned as Frederick hurried up the slope to meet them. “I’ve a report from Khan Flavia. The Plegian army is in disarray.”

“How do you mean?” the captain asked, glancing back at the distant field. 

“It seems many of their soldiers are opposed to further violence. There has been infighting, desertion…Gangrel is trying to stamp out the mutiny by force, but with little success. Outside of a few faithful who serve him directly, his army has all but collapsed.”

“This…this is incredible news,” Chrom laughed, touching the flower at his shoulder. “But why…?”

“Perhaps your efforts were not for nothing, after all,” Robin remarked. 

“Indeed, the report says Gangrel’s men chant your name as they abandon the field,” Frederick agreed. “Your words -- your actions in the capital -- seem to have made you a…folk hero, of sorts.”

The prince looked out over the conflict, the diminished Plegian army folding under the Feroxi forces. “Emm always said that peace was not the dream of Ylisse, but the dream of all men. Plegians, too. …it looks like she was right.”

“She’d be proud, seeing all you’ve accomplished,” the tactician murmured.

“I hope she can see this, wherever she is.” Drawing his blade, the captain pointed out toward the Plegian camp. “Today we put an end to Mad King Gangrel and bring peace back to this land,” he called. “To Ylisse, Ferox, _and_ Plegia. Onward!”

The Shepherds roared in agreement, pouring down the rugged slope behind the enemy lines. Robin saw the scouts in the outlying forts scrambling to address the new threat -- and watched as the pegasus knights dove from the cloud banks overhead, cutting them down as the enemy readied their weapons. 

Swift. Precise. Just as they’d planned. 

Storming past the first line of fortifications, the Ylisseans crossed the deep river cutting across the waste, pausing to reform their ranks as the Plegian command gathered what few soldiers had remained. And from the chaos strode the Mad King himself, drumming his fingers against the blade at his side. “Good day, my little princeling!” he taunted. “Your complexion seems changed since our last encounter -- and I can’t say it’s an improvement.”

“No more talk, Gangrel,” Chrom replied, stepping forward. “Today you die, and peace returns to Ylisse and Plegia.”

“Such hypocrisy!” the Mad King snorted. “You _despise_ me, wretch! You want to cut me down! You don’t know the first thing about peace. No man does!”

“I know more than you ever will,” the prince said, looking toward the sky. 

“More than me?” Gangrel repeated, manic laughter edging into his voice. “More than _ME!?_ Boy, you _are_ me! When life asks you a question, you answer with blood!”

The tactician saw Chrom stiffen, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Maybe you’re right. …I will never be my sister. I cannot forgive men like you -- men who sow nothing but evil. All I have left of her are words, and her memory. Were I alone, I might be driven to madness. …or worse.”

Glancing over his shoulder, the captain smiled at the Shepherds flanking him. “But I’m not alone. My friends and brothers-in-arms stand behind me. And together, we _will_ put an end to your reign!”

The Mad King sneered. “Are you done? May I vomit now? What a flowery harangue!” he cackled. “Men are _beasts!_ Nothing more! We _fight!_ We _kill!_ We devour our prey! Beasts do not _stand_ behind beasts, little prince…they use each other only so long as it suits their own selfish purpose!”

A faint grin twitched across the prince’s face. “Perhaps this explains why your own soldiers refuse to stand behind you?” As Gangrel’s expression twisted, Chrom continued on. “You are a poison. A festering wound. And I _will_ do what my sister could not.”

“Such a clever tongue you have, little prince,” the Mad King snapped. “It will look quite _fetching_ hanging on my mantle, next to the blade that slew your precious sister!”

As Gangrel’s men swarmed the field, a quiet footfall sounded behind them. The Shepherds turned, blades drawn…only to stop as a familiar woman hurried into the fold. “Milord, I have come! …a-am I too late?” the dancer asked, her cheeks flushing pink. 

“Right on time, actually,” Chrom chuckled. “Just stay close, and do what you can.”

“Y-yes, milord. I don’t claim my dance as anything special, but Khan Basilio says it renews the spirit!”

“Then we’re fortunate to have you,” the captain smiled. The rising color in her cheeks seemed entirely unrelated to her shyness. 

Gods, that man did not know the extent of his charms. 

But now was not the time for those thoughts. 

Scanning the field, Robin took stock of the enemy soldiers. He could spot the Plegian generals, surrounded by their personal guard of mages and fighters. And Gangrel, retreating to the rear to watch the carnage. …but no sign of the black-clad woman. She’d always been at his right hand before -- where could she be now? Overseeing the battle against the Feroxis? Or lying in wait somewhere, preparing another trap for the Shepherds? 

No. There was no time for games of what-if and probability. Focus on the task at hand. 

“We’ll need to clear the forts across the river, prevent them from cutting off our escape with reinforcements,” the tactician said. “The rest, split into two forces -- one for the spellcasters, one for the fighters. Divide their attention, keep them from defending each other and from blocking the captain’s advance.”

“Are we clear?” Chrom asked, unsheathing his blade. His warriors drew their own weapons, ready to face the charge. “Then let’s end this. Forward!”

The Shepherds sprang into action, the cavaliers galloping downfield with swordsmen in their wake, a rush of feathers swirling overhead as the pegasus knights took to the sky--

“Hey!”

Robin blinked up at Sumia as her mount hovered just off the ground. “Be careful out there,” she called. 

“You should do the same,” he smiled. “We can’t lose our hero in the final hour.”

She beamed, adjusting the grip on her lance. “I could say the same to you. Take care of the captain, and…and stay safe, alright?”

“I’ll do my best,” he agreed, offering a low bow. The pegasus knight saluted, flicking her reins and spiraling up into the sky to join Cordelia. He watched them, briefly, winging their way toward the forts at their back…

…and then he turned to find the prince smiling at him as Frederick stood impatiently by. “Are you coming?” Chrom asked. “It seems like poor strategy to charge in without the tactician.”

“Have you been studying while you convalesced?” Robin asked, falling into step at Chrom’s side. 

“No, but I like to think I’ve learned at least a few things from you.”

The tactician smiled, tugging his hood lower over his forehead as he scanned the field. The cavalry charge had gone exactly as intended: in defense of their generals. The mages and fighters had advanced in ones and twos to meet the threat, only to be overwhelmed by the infantry following close behind the cavaliers. With their guard diminishing rapidly, the commanders had no attention to spare for the prince rapidly making his way downfield. 

One final line of warriors. The great knight veered away to engage one mercenary as the captain bore down on a mage desperately trying to maintain distance between himself and the Ylissean fighters; Robin set his sights on another swordsman bearing down on the captain, staggering him with a bolt before Chrom turned to finish the job. Reinforcements rushed from the forts to aid their king, but the odds were in their favor now -- they could do this, they could claim the day, they could--

“Never send a maggot to do a man’s job.”

The tactician froze. Just for an instant. And then he moved, grabbing the prince and dragging him back a heartbeat before lightning scorched the dusty earth.

Chrom raised his blade as the Mad King stalked toward them, a wicked sneer cutting across his face. “Come, princeling! I’ve sharpened my sword just for you!”

“My sister wished for our people to know peace, Gangrel,” the captain replied. “But as long as you draw breath, it can never come.” His stance shifted, sword poised and ready to strike. “For Ylisse!”

The Mad King twirled his blade, a jagged piece of metal that seemed just as likely to injure its wielder as an enemy. But as Robin called forth the magic circles, Gangrel twisted easily out of the prince’s path, lifting his weapon overhead --

Sparks crackled across the blade. 

“Chrom!”

The prince jumped back, narrowly avoiding the bolt arcing off the Mad King’s steel. “What in the gods’ names--”

The tactician had no name for it. He’d read about such weapons, forged with magic, power singing through the metal…

…but they had come too far to stop now. 

The spell blazed around him. Over Gangrel’s shoulder, he saw Chrom nod and ready his next charge. Dancing away from the captain, the Mad King swung his sword toward the sky again--

Robin’s spell struck hard, burning a hole through the man’s cape and crackling through his armor. 

“Worthless _maggot,_ ” Gangrel snarled, whirling on the tactician and raising the blade. “I will _crush you int--“_

The Mad King’s voice guttered into silence. 

Blood seeped through Gangrel’s gritted teeth as Chrom pulled his blade free of the Plegian’s chest. “F-fool of…a prince,” he wheezed, his knees giving way. “Your people care not for you…y-you are…alone…as every man lives and dies…alone…”

“No,” the captain murmured, moving to stand by Robin’s side. “I know my cause. What I will fight for. And I am never alone.”

They did not speak. The clamor of battle raging around them died to a whisper. And soon the only sound was the wind on the plain.

Footsteps. “Milord,” Frederick bowed as Chrom turned to him. “The remaining Plegian forces are surrendering en masse.”

“Order our forces to cease fighting at once,” the prince replied. 

“As you command,” the great knight agreed. As Frederick moved to relay the news, the tactician slipped his hands into his pockets. 

And with that, he knew, it all came to an end.

***

The khans’ arrival was heralded by laughter and celebration, from both their Feroxi entourage and his own Shepherds. But in spite of their cheer, Chrom felt no satisfaction. It was not disappointment. There was only a hollow sense of finality. Ylisse, Plegia, and Ferox had peace -- at the cost of an exalt, a king, and countless warriors from all three nations.

Flavia and Basilio wasted no time in joining the prince and his tactician in one of the Plegian forts, offering a scroll detailing the terms of peace the moment they stepped through the doorway. Chrom couldn’t make out the words. They blurred together on the parchment into meaningless swirls of ink, no matter how hard he tried to focus. So he stood aside for Robin, watching the tactician pore over the treaty like one of his maps before finally nodding in silent approval. 

“Then it’s finished,” Flavia declared, binding the roll of parchment with a metal ring and handing it to the runner standing by outside. “Once their messenger delivers our terms, that’s it. We put an end to this bloody business, once and for all.”

“We’ve won,” Chrom repeated. The words did not soften the truth. Their victory had come at a high price, in pain and bloodshed and loss. “…somehow I don’t feel like celebrating.”

“Victory can be bitter as well as sweet, boy,” Basilio agreed. “It’s good you learn that now.”

“Regna Ferox lost many good soldiers today,” the east khan muttered, her voice uncharacteristically somber. “We need to see to our dead. Then it’s time to attend to the living and rebuild our army.”

“…I’m sorry, Flavia,” the prince said. “Your sacrifice will not be forgotten. Ylisse will compensate your nation in whatever fashion--”

“Oh?”

That brought a spark back to her eyes. “In that case, how about you hand over the Fire Emblem and we’ll call it even?”

As Chrom opened his mouth to reply, the khan winked at him. “Just a little Feroxi humor,” she chuckled. “Don’t worry after our finances, Chrom. Reparations will fall to Plegia, and I’ve seen their treasury -- they can _well_ afford it.”

“Yes, pity the man who stands between Flavia and a full coffer, boy,” the west khan shuddered.

That, at least, brought a faint smile back to Chrom’s face as they left the fort. “I’ll have to remember that when you come to visit Ylisstol--”

The sound of flapping wings overhead made him pause, instinctively touching the blade at his side. Not a wyvern, though. Just the pegasus knights coming in for a landing, looking worn but otherwise unscathed. The sight of them lifted a weight from his mind. After the losses the Feroxis had suffered, he was glad to know at least she was safe…

“Captain!”

Chrom turned toward the call. “Sumia?” 

The pegasus knight hurried to dismount, beaming as she ran to join them. “Oh, Captain! You made it! You’re safe!” And before he could speak, she threw her arms around him in a tight embrace. 

Flavia whistled. “Give these two some room,” she laughed. 

“Sumia,” Chrom sputtered. “You’re…choking me…”

“O-oh! Oh, I’m sorry, Captain,” she babbled, pulling back just far enough to look him over. “A-are you hurt? Grazed, even? You look exhausted!”

The prince opened his mouth to reply…

…and found that he had no words. No way to explain how heavy his heart felt in the wake of the battle. No way to describe the crushing realization that this meant their return to Ylisse, where Emmeryn no longer waited, the daunting prospect of leading the halidom in the wake of her loss. 

No way to express the relief he’d felt when he saw her pegasus soar overhead. 

“Chrom!” Lissa hissed, elbowing him in the side. “Say something!”

“I’m trying to!” he snapped. 

His sister gave him a sly wink. “Uh-huh. Flavia? Robin? Maybe we should…you know.”

“Carry on, lovebirds,” Flavia winked, casting a predatory grin over her shoulder as she shooed the rest of the Feroxis away. The prince thought he saw Robin smile as he retreated out of sight, though it was hard to tell under the raised hood…

Sumia sniffled.

He looked down as she pulled her hands back, wiping at her downturned face. “H-hey, are you -- come on, don’t cry.” He hated trying to cheer people up, he _always_ made a mess of it, and especially now…

“S-sorry,” she mumbled. “I just…”

“No, don’t apologize,” he sighed. “I’ve been so worried about everyone else lately -- my sister, our party, my people…it feels nice to know someone’s been worried about me. Especially someone who I…” He faltered, lifting a hand to her shoulder as he struggled with the words. “I mean, someone so…so gifted with pegasi.”

No, that wasn’t right. Gods, why did this have to be so hard? 

“You’ve been through so much,” Sumia sniffed, tucking her hair back behind her ear. 

“…so many have suffered and died because of my actions.” His hand tightened into a shaking fist at his side. “Next to my sister’s legacy, I feel I’m already a disappointment…”

“But that’s not true!”

His head came up at the pegasus’ knights shout, her tear-streaked face red not from crying but fervor. “Everyone fought so hard for you! Why would we all do that for a man we didn’t believe in?”

…he felt a faint smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “I see your point. …thanks, Sumia. You always help me see the…brighter side of things,” he chuckled, touching the flower still pinned at his shoulder. 

He watched her face light up as she saw it. “To me, you’re the brightest thing!”

…he struggled to find the words he needed. Why was addressing an army so much easier than talking to one woman? He fidgeted as the silence stretched on, trying to decide what to say…

She turned to leave. 

Words be damned. 

“Sumia…”

She jumped, turning back to him. “Y-yes?”

“I’m far from a perfect man. And I know you can do better. But whenever you’re close…you give me strength.” He touched the flower again, steadying his nerves with a deep breath. “So…what I want to ask is…will you be my wife?”

She stared at him, and his heart sank. Had he been wrong? Had it all just been kindness, or was there someone else--

_“YES!”_

She flung her arms around him again, crushing the breath from his lungs with the strength of her embrace. “Yes, _yes,_ oh, _yes!”_

“Thank the gods!” he laughed, pulling back enough to breathe. “I was worried for a second because…w-well, anyway…” The prince smiled as he took Sumia’s hand. “This is for you.”

“Y-your ring?” She watched as he removed it, sliding it into place on her finger. “B-but it bears the Ylissean crest! Chrom, I…I can’t take this.”

“Yes, you can,” he insisted. “My parents had it made to celebrate my birth. They wanted me to give it to the woman I would spend my life with. …take it. Please.” She looked up at him, disbelieving, as he folded her hand between his. “And know I will love you until the day I die.”

“Capt--” She faltered, her cheeks turning pink again. “Chrom…thank you,” she murmured. “I swear, I will return that love to you a hundredfold!”

“Then I am a fortunate man,” he chuckled, touching her cheek lightly with the backs of his fingers. “I’ll need to ask for a bit of patience for the near future. My first duty must be to heal the scars of war and assume my role for the people.” A task he dreaded, and feared he could not accomplish. 

But he would not be alone. And that made it seem less daunting. 

“But then, we can begin our life together,” he finished. 

“I’ll wait as long as it takes!” she promised. “I…I still hardly believe it. This is like a dream.” She touched the ring hesitantly with her fingertips, as though she expected it to vanish. “So much pain surrounds us, and yet…I think this is the happiest day of my life,” she whispered. 

“I feel the same way,” he chuckled. “I know together we can bring joy back to the royal palace. I’ll do everything I can to make the castle a happy home for us…my love.”

The words felt strange. Unfamiliar. But not unwelcome. His face prickled with warmth as she beamed up at him. “My love,” she repeated. 

They didn’t have a chance to make the announcement public. As soon as they rejoined the troops, it seemed the Shepherds already knew: a cheer went up from the Ylissean warriors, weapons clanging on shields as the prince came into view. He had a feeling Lissa was responsible for that. 

Lucky for her, Sumia hadn’t turned him down.

Scanning the crowd, his gaze caught on a familiar hooded coat. He couldn’t see the tactician’s face through the shadows. But something about Robin’s applause made his chest tighten. 

Chrom had sworn to end it. For the sake of the halidom, he had to. He had duties to uphold, for his country, for his people…

But now his resolve faltered, his heart torn between the woman at his side and the man in the crowd who showed no pain, in spite of the prince’s undeniable betrayal.

He had his peace, bought with blood and anguish. But the price this duty placed on his heart was far too high to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~pretty sure my crowning achievement as a writer is the opening line of Wyvern Wars~~  
> 
> And so ends arc one of the story! And at this point, the game slides us a two year time skip.
> 
> While I understand and respect it as an in-game structure, I am not hand-waving away two years of human drama. 
> 
> Instead, this marks the transition from our wartime epic into the sociopolitical drama that I have been putting together since this started. My plan had been to take a break after finishing up this arc...
> 
> ...but I am _so excited about writing this social drama_ I don't think that's going to happen. Instead I'm going to turn on The Crown and bury myself in Chapter 17.
> 
> Thank you again for reading along this far, and I hope you enjoy the chapters to come! <3


	17. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the war over, the Shepherds return to the halidom and the prince takes his place as ruler. While the rest of the nation settles and tries to recover, moving on proves difficult for some of the returning heroes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Warnings: None...?**
> 
>   
>  If my warnings are wrong, please feel free to correct me. ~~I don't think I need a warning for angst...~~
> 
> So I'm going to have to apologize in advance, because this is not a happy chapter. My beta is of the opinion that I am out to hurt her (comma) _personally_ , to which my response is generally to say 'no, I'm not trying to hurt you, I'm trying to hurt anyone that happens to read this and myself because I am an emotional masochist that way.'
> 
> You've been warned. 
> 
> ~~On a lighter note, my working title for this chapter was _Chrom You're Doing It Wrong_ , in case that gives you any idea of what's coming~~
> 
> More perspective shifts this chapter. Dashes (-) still indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

The Shepherds’ return to Ylisse was met with cheers and fanfare from every town and village they passed. Ylisstol itself had been decorated in festive wreaths and banners to welcome home their prince and his warriors, who had once more secured peace for all the halidom’s people. And Chrom was crowned almost as soon as he set foot in the palace -- not as exalt, by his own insistence, but simply as reigning prince. In Emmeryn’s honor. 

Chrom wasted no time in announcing his engagement, and the celebrations that followed lasted nearly a full fortnight. The wedding itself, set for just after the first bloom of spring, drew the whole of the capital’s citizenry out in force to be part of the spectacle. 

It was beautiful. Robin thought on it, now and then, as he lay awake in the garrison. Sumia’s joy glowed in her smile, her silver hair braided through with lilacs, and Chrom looked dashing in his ornamental silver armor. 

And most of all, he’d looked happy. 

A great many people cried at the ceremony, for a great many reasons. But Robin had not. Because he knew -- had always known -- that this would come. And he was content, knowing that the prince was happily wedded to someone so kind, whose gentleness belied her true strength. 

In the weeks that followed, he’d glimpsed the prince on several occasions, and thought once he heard Chrom call to him. But he had slipped quietly away each time, to tend to other matters that required attention as the halidom struggled to recover. 

His duties were small, simple, in the absence of an enemy to fight. He certainly did not mind that. He still found it difficult to sleep more than a few hours at a stretch, but the books and maps in the barracks common kept him occupied in the meantime. There were days he found he had more time than he knew what to do with, which had never been a problem before. But it did leave him with ample opportunity to read. And the more he read, the easier it was to lose himself, and forget.

“Robin?”

The tactician looked up from his book as Miriel approached the chair. “Yes? What can I do for you?”

“My apologies for the intrusion, but the captain is looking for you.” 

A heavy weight settled in the pit of his stomach. “Did he happen to say what he needed?”

“You to come with me.”

Robin shrank down in his seat as Chrom leaned against the back of the chair. “Ah. Hello, milord.”

The prince shook his head. “Hello, Robin. Do you have a few minutes?”

Well, he couldn’t exactly say no, when he’d just been caught reading. 

Setting the tome aside, the tactician rose to follow as the captain left the garrison. “Is there something I can do for you?” he asked.

“You can follow me,” Chrom replied, heading into the palace. 

Gods, he wished he had a sound reason not to. 

But he could find none. So he moved in the prince’s shadow, through the corridors and up the winding stairs, dreading whatever awaited him within these narrow halls. 

Chrom opened a door and stood aside, gesturing for Robin to enter. The tactician hesitated…but when no telltale fog spilled out across the floor, he moved warily inside--

And stopped, staring at the mountains of books stacked before him. Every wall, every shelf -- frankly every inch of space seemed dedicated to scrolls and tomes of every size. Running his fingers gently across the cover of the nearest text, he felt a smile spreading across his face. Gods, he’d never seen so many books in one place before…

“There. That’s what I was looking for.”

Robin looked up, trying to hide his excitement as the captain leaned against the nearest bookshelf. Judging by Chrom’s grin, he was doing a poor job. “Is this the palace library?”

“They’re called the royal archives, but it’s the same thing, as far as I can tell,” the prince shrugged. “It’s been…a few years since we’ve had a decent archivist, as you can probably tell. The last man who had the job complained about arthritis and didn’t make it up here often -- or at all -- but he’s finally decided to retire, so…we need someone new for the job. And as I recall, we discussed a ‘court historian’ position at one point.”

“…really?” He could barely find the words through the rush of awe; the only one he spoke seemed poorly suited, but nothing better came to him as he picked his way through the piles of tomes stacked nearly floor to ceiling.

“Why not?” Chrom laughed, following along behind the tactician. “It seemed like something you would enjoy, as much as you like books.”

“Have you brought Sumia here yet?”

“…why would I?”

“She loves books easily as much as I do,” Robin replied. “Perhaps more, when it comes to novels.”

Silence. He lifted a tome from the nearest pile, brushing dust from the cover before leafing through the pages. A medical treatise, from the looks of it -- perhaps they could import works from Ferox, given the great advances their northern neighbors had made in the healing arts without the benefit of magic--

“I know you’ve been avoiding me.”

He’d been hoping to avoid this. 

“I don’t know what you mean, milord--”

“Why are you doing that?”

“What?”

“You’ve never called me ‘milord’ before.”

“You’re the ruler of Ylisse, it seems appropriate--”

“We’re beyond that--”

“ _No.”_

Chrom stopped as the tactician snapped the book shut, replacing it atop its pile with shaking hands. “Robin--”

“We are not beyond anything. There is nothing between us.”

He moved deeper into the library, skirting around a teetering stack of what appeared to be legal ledgers. Gods, this place truly had seen better days--

“I’m sorry.” 

Robin paused, casting a faint smile over his shoulder. “You’ve nothing to apologize for.”

“I hurt you--”

“You didn’t.”

“I wanted to tell you--”

“I know. I hope you don’t imagine you were being subtle before that last battle,” Robin chuckled, flipping through another text without seeing the contents. 

“…you knew?”

“I always knew,” he murmured. “As soon as it began, I knew that…time was short.” The tactician pulled his hood up as his eyes began to burn. “You’re a prince. You have duties to uphold. I knew it would have to end. And now it has, and there’s nothing more to say.”

He felt the prince’s stare, and could not meet his eye. “Don’t talk like that,” Chrom said.

“I’m speaking honestly.”

“Robin, please--”

“I don’t want to put you in an uncomfortable position,” the tactician replied. “And Sumia is a friend. I don’t want to hurt her.”

“…what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Look me in the eye and tell me this doesn’t hurt you.”

Robin pieced together a smile from memory. It didn’t feel quite right. But then, none of this did. “Why would that matter?”

“It does to me.”

Chrom stepped forward, and the tactician retreated. The shelves made it hard to maneuver -- had this been a trap all along? “It shouldn’t.”

“How can you say that--”

“Because it’s the truth,” Robin shrugged. “You’re married now. You have a wife who loves you. And I’ve seen how you look at her. It’s not one-sided. _She’s_ the one who deserves your attentions. Your affections. Anything that…might have been between us is buried in the past, and I have no intention of digging it up. You’ve no cause for concern.”

“Robin--”

The prince moved toward him, and the tactician realized he had nowhere left to run to. His hands shook, but he resisted the temptation to grip his sleeves. Even if he did not feel it, he had to stay strong. Or at least appear to.

“Are you happy?”

Robin blinked, fighting to clear his vision as he looked toward the captain. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me,” Chrom murmured. “Are you happy?”

No. The warmth in his heart had gone out, and all he had left were ashes and the memory of something more. 

But he could not say that. 

“I am content,” the tactician replied, bowing his head.

“But not happy.”

“Is there a difference?”

“If there wasn’t, you would have just said yes.”

The prince took another step, and Robin’s retreat trapped him against a heavy shelf crowded with books. “Please, Chrom--”

The captain pushed his hood back, smoothing the tactician’s hair with steady hands. “I’m sorry,” Chrom whispered. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I never meant…I’m not casting you aside. I love you.”

A sob lodged in his throat as Chrom’s arms slipped around him. And he could not find the strength to pull away. Gods, he had missed this. He had told himself that the memories were enough, but in the face of this warmth his resolve failed him. 

“It’s alright,” the prince murmured. “Please don’t cry, don’t…”

“You can’t do this,” Robin breathed. 

“Why not?” Chrom chuckled, touching a kiss to the tactician’s forehead. 

“Sumia.”

“This has nothing to do with Sumia. This only has to do with you.”

“But--”

“No. You’re not forsaken. You’re not alone. I’m still here for you. Nothing about that has changed. And neither has the way I feel for you.”

That was what Robin had feared. 

The tactician bowed his head, pushing the prince back with shaking hands. “You should go.”

Chrom did not move. “ _Please,”_ Robin whispered. 

“…I’ll come back for you.”

The tactician listened to the captain’s steps retreating. Heard the door open and close again. And finally silence. 

He slid to the floor, lifting his hood and pressing his face into his hands. And he prayed the prince would not make good on that promise.

\-----

Two weeks spent lost in the archives and Robin had finally managed to catalogue the contents of the shelves from top to bottom. Many of them were, for the most part, orderly and sensible: a case filled with volumes on Ylissean history, another dedicated to texts on religion and mythology, still another for magic and medicine and how one related to the other. But the deeper he ventured into the library, the more he found haphazard collections of whatever books happened to fit on the shelves, and he hadn’t even started on the stacks. To say that the library had been poorly attended in recent years seemed a tragic understatement. He feared he would need to re-order the whole room.

But at least that challenge did not involve bloodshed. 

A light knock came at the door. The tactician paused, his chest tightening as he looked up from his parchment. Gods, he prayed it was not Chrom, he wasn’t sure he could manage another encounter like the last--

“Hello? Is anyone about?”

A wave of relief flooded through him as he sat back down at his writing table. “Hello, Maribelle,” he called. “Please, come in.”

The noblewoman paused as the door closed behind her, glancing around the cluttered archives with apparent dread. “Good heavens.”

“Oh, rest assured, I know,” Robin sighed. “I’ve only _just_ finished taking inventory of the shelves. The stacks are going to be a nightmare.”

“Well, at least the palace finally has a capable man at the head of the efforts, if you’ve taken over the position,” the troubadour said, picking her way over to his desk. He glanced up in surprise at the unexpected compliment, unable to keep the smile from his face. 

“I certainly intend to do my best,” he chuckled. “But is there something I can help you with?”

“Oh. Yes. Well, to be frank, I…had not expected to find anyone here. It’s common knowledge that the archives have been poorly staffed for some years now, and…I’m afraid this is a rather awkward situation.”

The tactician stood up, gesturing for Maribelle to join him. She hesitated, glancing toward the door…but moved to follow in the next moment as he turned out of sight around a bookshelf. Neither spoke as they threaded their way through the room -- but when Robin finally stopped, the noblewoman gave him a look that clearly demanded explanation. 

“You mentioned once that you wanted to join the magisterial court,” he said, running his fingers along the spines of the books before them. “I thought that case records might help -- each volume covers one year, going back to the founding of the magistery. There are also books on Ylissean law -- common, noble, and court -- here,” he added, touching the next shelf over.

“…I must say, I’m…rather impressed,” she remarked. “I hadn’t expected you to remember.”

“It’s a noble goal,” he murmured. “And not one that’s easily forgotten.”

She smiled, tucking a ringlet of hair behind her ear. “It’s kind of you to say so. But…well, since you are here, I was…hoping that I might ask a favor from you.”

The tactician’s brow furrowed slightly. “What is it?”

“Well, you see…I’ve found myself thinking over some of the things you said. Rather more often than I care to admit,” she muttered. “And in my dealings with the other Shepherds, I have begun to notice patterns in my own behavior that may…not be suited for the role I wish to take on.”

Robin felt his eyebrows rise. “I see. And the favor?”

“Well, since we are friends -- or, at least, I would hope that we are at the very least acquaintances -- I was hoping that you could…assist me. In correcting these behaviors. That I might better serve all who come before the court, rather than only some.”

The tactician leaned carefully against the nearest bookcase, a faint smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “I would be happy to help,” he said, offering a low bow. 

She clapped, relief overtaking the stiff discomfort in her expression. “Oh, wonderful! Thank you, _truly_ \-- oh, and rest assured, I would not ask a favor and offer nothing in return.”

Actually, he’d not considered that. “You don’t need to--”

“Oh, tut tut, darling. It’s a poor friend indeed who begs for aid and gives no recompense. In exchange, I’ll be teaching you all about noble manner and etiquette.”

“Really, Maribelle, you don’t need to trouble yourself--”

“Trouble myself? Oh, it’s no trouble at all, Robin! Given that you’re helping me in service of the position I aspire to, it seems only fitting that I help you in service of your new appointment, wouldn’t you agree?”

The tactician paused. “Why would an archivist need to understand noble manners?” 

A look of pity came over the noblewoman’s face. “Oh, dear Robin -- the _royal_ archivist is a court position. You’re effectively the caretaker of Ylisse’s entire written history. You’ll be expected to make appearances and speak on the state of the archives and--”

He shrank down further into his collar with every word she spoke. “Do I have to?” he asked. “I thought I could just live here with the books…”

“Oh, you poor thing,” Maribelle sighed, patting his shoulder. “Rest assured, I’ll see to it that you become a gentleman truly fit for the high court of Ylisse.”

Gods, he wished she wouldn’t.

\-----

Maribelle had been unfortunately true to her word.

Admittedly, the ‘lessons’ were not as painful as he’d expected. He even thought he was starting to develop a knack for aristocratic poise -- when he remembered, at least. He tended to lapse back into a huddled slouch when his attention wandered, which seemed to be the most grievous fault she could find with him. So far, at least. 

But while noble manner and bearing began their meetings, conversation concluded it. And as he gently coached her through the basics (in particular, not balking at every question), he began to get a better sense of her. Daughter of the long and storied Themis lineage, sharp-witted and sharp-tongued from an early age, ostracized and openly mocked by her peers…save for Lissa. It certainly explained a great deal.

He had been asked to confess very little, by comparison, for which he was grateful. She asked about his upbringing, a question now and then about his mother, but mostly she seemed interested in his outsider’s perspective on the halidom’s caste system. It had led to several extensive debates on the merits of the Feroxi’s rule by power compared to Ylisse’s rule by blood, one of which had lasted so long that she’d called for her afternoon tea in the library to continue the discussion (and, of course, to teach him the _proper_ way to take his tea). 

Despite his initial misgivings, Robin had begun to look forward to the troubadour’s daily visits. Though they did not always see eye to eye, he appreciated her frank speech and honest outlook. And while she did occasionally slip back into old habits when their views clashed, she was always quick to correct herself when she realized. The conversation was, at the very least, lively. He hesitated to admit it, but…he had missed having someone to talk to. 

Meanwhile, the tactician had begun the daunting task of sorting and cataloguing the piles of unshelved books, preparing neat stacks alongside like cases for future shelving. Some of the tomes had clearly been removed and never properly replaced, while others had likely never been sorted in the first place. Thankfully, the deeper sections of the library were quite bare: he would need the room to expand.

As he carefully removed a few recent magistery records from a precarious tower of books, he heard the door swing open. “Just a moment!” Robin called, tucking the two volumes he’d managed to extract under his arm. He’d come to understand that good manners included prompt response to visitors. “My apologies, Maribelle, I found a few more--”

He froze as he rounded the final row of shelves. 

Not the noblewoman. 

“What’s Maribelle been doing here?” Chrom asked, leaning against the tactician’s desk. 

“It’s not my place to say, milord,” Robin replied, setting the texts face-down on the edge of the table. 

“Please stop doing that.”

“Propriety dictates--”

“Propriety be _damned._ ”

The tactician did not meet the prince’s eye, sitting in his chair and gesturing politely for Chrom to take a seat across from the desk. “Is there something you need?”

He felt the prince watching him. But he kept his head down, folding his hands on the table before him to still his shaking--

Robin jumped as something dropped onto the desk, reaching instinctively for the tome in his coat and fighting back the impulse in the next moment. Not a threat. Just a heavy sachet. Calm down. “What is it?” he asked. 

“Your pay from the campaign,” Chrom replied. “It’s a nightmare trying to get anything out of the treasury.”

The tactician reached hesitantly for the bag, tugging the drawstrings loose and staring at the mound of gold inside. “This is more coin than I’ve seen in my entire life.” The sum he’d saved and spent during their last stay in Ferox was a minute fraction of the purse’s value. “I can’t take this.”

“What? Why?”

“This is outrageous. You don’t need to pay me off--”

“Pay you-- I’m not trying to _pay you off,_ ” the prince protested. “Without you, we never would have made it through Plegia. For everything you did, the risks you took with your own life for our sakes -- for _my_ sake -- you deserve more.”

Those gentle words cut deep. 

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I owe you my life at least twice over--”

“You’ve knowingly taken the Heart of Grima into the halidom’s protection, that alone is a debt I can’t repay.”

“…is that really what you think this is?”

“That’s all it should be.”

Chrom leaned close over the desk and the tactician cringed back. “Robin--”

“Please don’t start.”

“I’m sorry--”

“I told you, you’ve no reason to apologize. _Please--”_

“I wasn’t trying to drive you away.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You know what I mean.”

“You have duties. They take precedence.”

“They shouldn’t.”

“They _have_ to.”

“Why?”

“Because when you married Sumia, it wasn’t _just_ your duty. You love her. And now every minute you spend here you betray your duty, her heart, _and_ your own.”

Pressing a hand to his face, Robin struggled to catch his breath and collect his senses. His head ached from the pounding of his pulse in his skull, his chest ached from the crushing weight on his heart--

“Are you alright?”

Chrom’s hand settled on his shoulder. There had been such comfort in that touch once. Now it only burned. 

“I’m fine,” the tactician muttered. “Please go.”

“Robin--”

A knock sounded at the door. 

The prince lingered another moment. But finally he withdrew, moving back a few steps around the desk. “Get some rest,” he murmured. “Soon.”

The door opened as Chrom made to leave. “Robin? Are you about-- oh! Good day, milord! I hope I’m not interrupting anything…”

“I was just on my way out,” the prince replied. And something else, too soft for the tactician to hear. He did not look up when the door closed. 

“My, what was that about?” the noblewoman asked, moving toward the desk. 

“Financial matters.” Which was not entirely untrue, he reasoned, hefting the coin purse and setting it on the floor beside his chair. He had no idea what to do with it -- he wasn’t sure he wanted it at all, but long experience had taught him not to let fortune go to waste, in gold or otherwise--

“Goodness, you look dreadful!”

The tactician mustered a wry smile. “I wasn’t aware.”

“Are you unwell? Do you need to visit the clerics?”

“It’s just a headache,” he assured her, tapping the books at the corner of the desk. “I found a few more records from the magisterial court hiding in a stack I was sorting. I thought you might like to take a look them.”

She tucked them under her arm, hovering beside the table. He sensed she was waiting for him to say something, and tried to focus on their lessons, but he couldn’t quite grasp the thoughts…

“Perhaps you should rest, and we can resume tomorrow.”

“Did the prince ask you to say that?”

Silence. He’d expected as much.

Robin sighed, covering his eyes with a shaking hand. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Very good.” He listened to her steps cross the room, the heavy creak of the door…and then silence. “Do take care,” she added. 

And then he was alone.

***

It still felt so strange, calling the Ylisstol castle ‘home.’

Her whole life, Sumia had looked at the palace and dreamed about what it must be like there -- the balls, the feasts, the hidden passageways and secret rooms…but she’d never _really_ thought she’d get to come. At least, not for more than a few minutes. Joining the Shepherds, she sometimes got to see inside the main hall, and once or twice she’d even seen the exalt in the throne room…

…it hadn’t been that long ago. But it felt like it, sometimes. So much had happened so fast, and even with the war over, it hadn’t slowed down at all. Everyone was busy. Even her. There were a million things to learn and do and she felt like she hadn’t even had a chance to take a breath since they got back to Ylisse. 

But today things were quiet. It was rainy, which meant no drills with the pegasi, and her usual etiquette tutor hadn’t shown up at the usual time, so Sumia took that to mean she had a free day. And what she wanted to do, more than _anything,_ was read. It had taken her two weeks to finish her last book at a pace of a chapter a night before bed (if that, since she sometimes fell asleep partway through), but now she was out of reading material. And she’d heard there was a library in the palace, which seemed like just the sort of place she needed to visit. 

Too bad she didn’t know where it was. 

After exploring for the better part of the morning, the pegasus knight finally stumbled into a room that took her breath away. She’d never seen so many books in one place in her whole life. She’d had dreams like this before, but she never thought this kind of library would actually _exist--_

“Impressive, isn’t it?”

Sumia jumped, tripped as she turned toward the voice, and fell. As she scrambled back to her feet, she saw someone reach down to help her up, and felt her face go red. So much for the image she was supposed to be cultivating of a poised and proper lady…

“Are you alright?”

“Robin?”

The tactician smiled at her, patiently holding his hand out. She accepted gratefully, feeling at least some of the embarrassment ease as he helped her to her feet. “What are you doing here?” she asked, dusting herself off. 

“I work here now,” he shrugged. 

“Really?”

“Royal archivist is my official title. Think of me as an over-glorified librarian.”

She laughed, moving to follow as he gestured toward a nearby desk. “Do you like being an over-glorified librarian?”

She waited, sitting in one of the chairs. But he didn’t answer. Instead he moved to one of the nearest cases, running one hand over the spines before pulling down a book. “I feel better ordering books than people,” he murmured, sitting down across from her and setting the text between them. “Here.”

“What is it?” she asked as she picked it up. “ _A Wing and a Prayer?”_

“I found it while I was cataloguing. I glanced through it -- I think it’s a love story between a priest and a pegasus knight. It seemed like something you might enjoy.”

It sounded like something she wanted to start reading right away, actually. But it had been so long since she’d seen Robin -- things had been so busy, they hadn’t talked at all since before the wedding announcement… “Is it a busy job? Being an archivist?”

“Well, right now I don’t think I can call this an archive,” he sighed. “It’s more a dumping ground for books at the moment. Until everything’s organized and shelved, I’m giving it my full attention. After that…well, I don’t know what else a royal archivist does.”

“Do you take breaks?” she asked. 

He glanced at her as she fussed with the book in her hands. “On occasion.”

“Do you have time for a break? …now, maybe?”

She looked up just in time to see him smile. “I think that could be arranged.”

“Oh, good! I didn’t want to interrupt if you were doing something important, but I haven’t seen you in so long, and…”

“It’s no trouble, milady,” he murmured.

“You don’t need to call me that.”

“You’re part of the royal house now, aren’t you?” he asked. “It seems proper.”

“Well, yes, but…we’re friends, aren’t we?”

She thought she saw something in his expression, just for an instant -- something sad, something lost, something that made her think of that night in the infirmary on their way out of Plegia…

…but it was gone as soon as she blinked. “We are,” he agreed. “So how have you been? Is the life of royalty as exciting as it seems in books?”

“No!” she groaned, slumping back in her chair. “Every day I have lessons in etiquette and manners and I never seem to get it right. It’s _frustrating._ ”

“It’s certainly different,” he agreed. “Nothing like Ferox.”

“It’s not like anything from Ylisse, either,” she sighed. “But I’ve been helping Cordelia to get the pegasus knights back together, too! There aren’t many left right now, after everything, but she’s talking to breeders and started looking for recruits and getting the training on track and…”

“Have you been officially inducted, then?”

“Yes!” She beamed, holding up her arm to show off the band on her wrist. The winged emblems etched into the metal flashed in the light. “I think a lot of people weren’t happy about it, though. It’s dangerous, and I’m supposed to be…a princess, I guess?” She still wasn’t sure how that worked. But Chrom hadn’t wanted to take the title of exalt, so… “A-anyway, Chrom was all in favor, so we had the ceremony a few weeks ago, and I’ve been helping out with training the new recruits since then, getting them bonded with their pegasi, going through flight drills…”

“I’m glad. You deserve to finally be recognized in the order, after everything you’ve done.”

Sumia smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “What about you? It must be different…”

“In the best sense of the word,” he chuckled. “I much prefer this to combat. No bloodshed. No one’s lives dependent on my decisions. …it’s quiet. Not many people come here, so…”

“…don’t you get lonely?”

There it was again. That flicker of sadness as he looked down at his hands. “Sometimes it’s easier that way.”

Something in his voice shook her to the core. “Is something the matter?” she asked. 

He tried to smile, but it didn’t look quite right. “It’s nothing you need to trouble yourself with,” he murmured. “I’m sure there are far more important things to occupy your attention.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help…”

“Please don’t worry.”

“But you’re my friend. If you’re upset about something, and if there’s something I can do--”

“Be happy.”

She stopped short, watching as he ruffled his hair. “That must sound strange. But doesn’t the hero deserve happiness?”

“You’re a hero, too, though,” she argued. “That means you deserve to be happy, too!”

“Look at where we’re sitting,” he laughed, gesturing to the shelves upon shelves of books around them. “What more could I ask for?”

She could think of a lot of things. Good company. Friendship. Love. Things she had -- some of which still amazed her -- and things she didn’t want to see him go without. 

“When do you need to get back?” he asked.

Oh. She hadn’t thought about that. She hadn’t exactly announced where she was going. 

“Probably soon.” Hugging the book to her chest, the pegasus knight stood and turned toward the door…

…and then back to Robin as he rose to see her off. “Would it be alright if I came back to visit sometime?”

He looked surprised. And when he smiled, it still looked just a little bit off. “Of course. You’re always welcome in the archives -- if I happen to spot any more interesting looking books, I’ll be sure to set them aside for you.”

Sumia beamed. “I’d really like that! I’ll come back soon, alright?”

“Take care until then,” he murmured, bowing as he opened the door for her. Shaking her head, the pegasus knight slipped out into the hall, listening to the room close up behind her as she headed back the way she’d come. 

Both her cheer and her step flagged the further she went. What was that look she’d kept seeing in Robin’s eye? What was weighing so heavily on his mind that he couldn’t tell her about? Unless it was something she did. Had she done something? Said something? Or maybe it was something she _hadn’t_ said and should have? 

Maybe she could ask Chrom to talk to the tactician. They were close, after all -- if anyone could talk to Robin and get an answer, she was sure it would be the captain. And it would drive her crazy until she knew.

***

Lissa had never been very good at sitting still. She wasn’t a very proper princess in most ways, and that was probably one of the worst. It was why she’d gone and followed her brother into the militia when he took over, even though nobody had really approved ( _especially_ Frederick). And it was why she was having so much trouble now.

She was glad the war was over. Of course she was. Everyone was. She didn’t miss the fighting. She didn’t miss being scared that someone would die because she was too far away to heal them in time. She didn’t miss the constant worrying that some assassin was going to steal into their camp at night the way they had the castle and…

…she still had nightmares about that. 

What she did miss were her friends. Maribelle had been spending a lot of time at the palace, which was great, but the other Shepherds had gone off to do all kinds of other things. They were still helping to protect the peace in Ylisse, getting sent out to handle bandits and things, but now she couldn’t do that because Frederick insisted she had to stay at the castle since Chrom was tied up in taking over the halidom, and the great knight couldn’t be in two places at once. And worse yet, _one_ of the Shepherds had gone into hiding. 

If it weren’t for Maribelle, she wouldn’t have even known about it. The duchess brought it up over tea that Robin had been acting weird (‘out of sorts,’ as she put it) and hiding himself up in the archives that Lissa had completely forgotten about. She’d been so sure that he was off solving problems with Sully and Vaike (or more likely solving the problems Sully and Vaike _made_ ), finding out he was right under her nose and hadn’t even bothered to say hi…

…she worried. 

He hadn’t closed himself off like that since he first joined the Shepherds. He’d been getting so much better, he’d been talking to people and kind of even making friends (because she knew Sully only really picked on her friends, and she _really_ picked on Robin), and now…this.

And the princess was bound and determined to get to the bottom of it. 

She remembered the archive from when she was little, and having the stuffy old tutors drone on and on until she fell asleep with her eyes open. But as she stormed inside, she realized that it looked a lot better now than it ever had then: she didn’t see any piles of unshelved books or heaps of parchment…it actually looked like a real _library._

“Gods, Lissa, you could at least knock.”

The princess turned and marched toward the little desk as Robin leaned down to pick up his overturned chair. 

“Well, _you_ could at least stop hiding like a dusty old hermit,” she huffed, planting her hands on her hips. “What’s the matter with you?”

He opened his mouth to say something…

…and stopped. “That damnable oath,” he grumbled under his breath.

It took Lissa a moment to remember. And then she had trouble not laughing. That pinky swear had been a great idea. “So? Come on, tell me why you’ve been acting so weird.”

The tactician sighed, running a hand through his hair and rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m trying to avoid someone.”

“Who?” she demanded. “Do I need to punch somebody?”

“No need for that,” he chuckled. “Someone’s just been bothering me--”

“Are they being mean?” She didn’t think people would be mean to Robin, since he was a Shepherd and all, but she also couldn’t understand why people were mean to Maribelle, so…

“I…don’t think they mean to be,” the tactician replied. “But it wears on me.”

“What’re they doing?” Lissa asked, crossing her arms as he ruffled his hair again. 

He took a minute. She waited, tapping her foot impatiently, and ready to remind him that he _did_ promise not to lie to her--

“Making overtures.”

She frowned. “Overtures? …wait, like, _romantic_ overtures?”

“Unfortunately.”

“What do you mean ‘unfortunately,’ that sounds _great!”_ She knew _she’d_ be excited if someone started acting all romantic with her…

“Because he’s in no position to be making those kinds of gestures--”

Lissa’s face lit up. “It’s a _boy!?”_

“…yes,” he sighed, pressing a hand to his eyes. 

“Do you _looooove_ him?” the princess teased. 

But Robin didn’t smile. He didn’t blush. He just looked hopeless, leaning against his desk with his hand over his face. “Regrettably.”

…she hadn’t heard him sound so sad in a long time. 

“…it’s okay, you know,” she said. “I mean, I don’t know about Ferox or anything, but that’s okay here in Ylisse. You can fall in love and marry whoever you want. It doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or a girl or somebody from Ferox or…or anything.”

Somehow, that didn’t make him look any happier. “While that’s a nice thought, the situation is rather more complicated than that.”

Planting her hands back on her hips, the princess pulled herself up as tall as she could. “Hey! You just said that you like him, and if he’s proposing then he must love you back, right? So if _he_ doesn’t care about it, why should you?”

“Because someone has to think about the consequences,” Robin sighed. “If you just charge blindly ahead without thinking, something will always go wrong.”

“You think too much,” she huffed. 

“I imagine that’s what made me such an able tactician.”

Lissa fumed for a moment. But as much as she hated to admit it (and she _really_ hated to admit it)…he might be right. Somebody had to think about the downsides. 

But she hated to see him hiding like this. Especially from something that should make him happy. 

“Have you told him?”

The tactician blinked up at her. “Told him what?”

“How you feel.”

“There’s an understanding--”

“Have you _told him?”_

The tactician sighed, ruffing his hair as he looked away. 

“Well, I think you should,” the princess insisted. “I mean, as long as you’re honest with each other, it’ll work out…right?”

He looked toward her again. And the smile he mustered up looked at least a little better. “You’re right. Honesty should sort this out.”

“Great!” Clapping her hands together, Lissa bounced toward him, hooking her arm with his and heading toward the door. “Now that that’s settled, I think it’s about time for tea!”

“But I haven’t--”

“No buts! Teatime!” And drowning out his protests with a steady stream of chatter, the princess hauled the tactician out of the archive and down the hall, fully prepared to make up for all the time he’d wasted being a hermit and cheer him up for real.

***

Sometimes, as twilight fell over the city, Robin liked to sit by the windows in the archive and look out over the palace gardens. The destruction had at last been cleared away to make room for new growth, with saplings planted in place of the blackened trees and flowers once more lining every path. It was not the same. But it was a significant improvement over the wreckage left by Gangrel’s attack. 

He heard the door open at the far end of the room. But he did not move from his place. Heard, distantly, a voice call for him. And he did not respond. 

Even still, the peace had been broken. Listening to the footsteps approaching through the tidy shelves, he kept his gaze on the trees and bushes spread below, the flowers closed with the approach of nightfall. Tilting his temple against the chill glass, the tactician marshalled his thoughts for the battle ahead. 

This would not be easy. War never was. But he had survived this long. He had to keep on. 

“Robin?”

The tactician glanced up as Chrom rounded a nearby bookcase, the small lamp he carried lighting the otherwise dark library. And then he turned back to the gardens.

The prince sat across from him on the narrow sill. “Did you not hear me call you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“…are you alright?”

“Did you know that Ylissean law places no prohibitions on marriage except in the case of noble heirs?”

“…I don’t even know what that means.”

“It means that the law in Ylisse states that commoners and the second-born members of noble households are free to marry anyone they so choose, whether they happen to be a man or woman, even common or foreign -- but the first-born members of noble households are required, by law, to engage in marriages that will produce offspring to continue the line.”

“That doesn’t sound real.”

“It is. I’ve been going through magistery records. There are at least three cases where heirs were disinherited by their parents for that reason. And that’s just in the volumes I’ve scanned.”

“…what’s going on, Robin?” Chrom asked. The tactician offered a vague shrug, keeping his eyes on the darkening gardens below. “Sumia’s worried. She thinks she did something to upset you.”

The bitter laugh burned his throat as he pulled his hood down over his eyes. “She has it the wrong way around.”

Chrom sighed, leaning forward to touch Robin’s hand. 

So it began. 

“Don’t.”

“What?”

Even as the prince spoke, the tactician slid from the windowsill and into the dark archives, moving by touch and by memory through the winding bookcases. He saw, as he turned, the flickering light of Chrom’s lamp at his heels, but made no effort to rush. He had chosen this battleground for a reason. He had prepared for this. 

“I can’t do this anymore.” 

He stopped at the end of a long row of shelves, listening as the prince’s steps drew closer. “Do what?” the quiet voice behind him asked. 

“You know.”

“We’ve been through this--”

“No,” Robin argued. “You have spoken at length about it. But _we_ have not agreed on anything, and now it is my turn to speak. I cannot do this anymore.”

“You haven’t done anything, though.”

“I’ve betrayed her.”

“Sumia?” The tactician nodded. “You haven’t done anything. Gods, Robin, you won’t even let me _near_ you anymore--”

“And yet, here you are. Propositioning someone who is clearly not your wife, and I have not put a stop to it.”

“It’s not propositioning when we already--”

“Chrom.”

Robin turned, carefully removing his glove to reveal the six-eyed mark on his hand. “Do you know what a duty is?”

“Of course--”

“Then tell me.”

The prince paused. “It’s something that needs to be carried out.”

“Above all other considerations.”

“What?”

“That is a duty: the foremost obligation you have to uphold. Duty _must_ take precedence. Everything else is secondary.”

“What does being here have to do with my duties?”

“Your presence here violates them.”

“This has nothing to do with--”

“You are a husband: you have a duty to your wife, which you are violating by making advances toward someone else. You are a prince: you have a duty to your people to continue your lineage, which is threatened by these advances made toward another man, and which also violates legal precedent. I will say this only once: this cannot continue.”

“Why do they have to interfere?”

Gods, that soft plea shook him far more than Chrom’s fierce arguments. 

“Because it’s impossible for them not to,” Robin sighed. “Every moment you would spend with me is a moment you should be spending with your wife. It’s not fair to her. And people will start to wonder. Rumors will spread. It puts you, Sumia, and the stability of the halidom at risk. So whatever you think you feel for me--”

“I’m not imagining it--”

“Give it to her instead. She deserves it.”

“What about you?”

His heart ached. “That’s not important.”

“It is to me.”

The prince stepped closer, and the tactician held his hand up. He knew the light caught the mark, saw Chrom’s attention fix on it. “I have my own duty. To ensure that Grima’s vessel does not fall into Grimleal hands. My first priority is survival. If I can’t see a way to that, then destruction is my only other option. There can be nothing else.”

“Then why did you say you loved me?”

Robin pulled his hand back, touching the mark with his fingertips. “I made a mistake.”

“Being happy isn’t a mistake.”

“Being happy isn’t _necessary._ ”

Stop. Breathe. Shelve the emotions. They had no place here. 

He turned, making his way through the maze of the bookcases as he pulled his glove back on. “It’s a blessing, when your duty can bring you happiness. Can be your happiness. And you are fortunate, in that regard: you have a wife who loves you, and who you love in turn. So let her be your happiness, and stop chasing shadows.”

He emerged from the labyrinth and crossed to his writing table, tucking his marked hand into his pocket as he leaned against the edge. “Now. I have said my piece. One of us will have to exit the room. As archivist, it would make sense if you did, but I have no qualms about leaving.”

He could not meet the prince’s eye. He did not want to see Chrom’s expression, and risk undoing everything he’d fought for.

They did not move. His heart beat once. Again. The tactician gripped the edge of the desk to still his shaking fingers. 

The prince stepped forward. “Please--”

Robin moved out of the lamplight, measuring his steps. His hand settled on the handle, opening the door and letting the light from the hall beyond blind him as he turned back to the dark archives. “Good evening, milord.”

Moving out of the room, the tactician pulled the door closed behind him…and leaned against it, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. This was how it had to be. It was the only way. And it was the right thing to do. 

And perhaps, if he repeated that mantra long and loud enough, the pain would ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I promise it's going to get better soon._  
> 
> I don't want to leave anyone with this kind of emotional trauma on Valentine's Day. That would just be mean. Barring unforeseen catastrophes, I'm aiming to have another chapter posted by February 14th, and that should bring some light back into the story.


	18. Breakdown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things fall apart. A desperate gambit goes wrong. A long overdue conversation finally takes place. And with a deeper understanding, there may at last be hope for things to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> **Warnings: Mild Language**
> 
>   
> ~~I still don't think I need a warning for angst, please correct me if I'm wrong~~
> 
> I cried writing this chapter. More than once. And still choked up a little during editing. I am either the worst author or there's some real heartbreak in here.
> 
> More perspective shifts this chapter. Dashes (-) still indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

Chrom felt lost. 

He didn’t miss this. The hollow ache of absence, the void left by something torn away. He’d hoped he would never know it again, after Emmeryn. And while this wasn’t quite the same…it still hurt. 

It had been better, before. He’d regretted his haste, but Robin had been close by, and the prince had hoped that…maybe he could make amends. He did love Sumia -- he didn’t regret that decision. But his heart felt torn in two directions, and it only got worse the longer he left things. 

That had been his own fault, for not saying something while he had the chance. The moment he’d been looking for never appeared. And then he’d run out of time. 

And now… 

Gods, all of this felt wrong. He could blame Frederick, for putting the thought in his head in the first place, but…in the end, he had to accept that this mess was his fault. 

And he had to set things right. 

“Sumia.”

She turned away from the rain-streaked windows as he came into the room. Her smile just made his chest tighten. Moving to meet him, she stretched up on tip-toe to kiss his cheek. “How was your day, Love?”

“Long. Confusing. About what I’ve come to expect from the court.” Diplomacy and politics had never been his strong suit. Except in Ferox. Sometimes he thought Ylisse needed to adopt some of those principles.

“It takes a lot of getting used to,” the pegasus knight agreed. “I’m still getting my knuckles rapped for accidentally putting my elbows on the table.”

“Gods, I remember that,” he chuckled. “It took me a while to remember, too. Once that old woman smacked me so hard I couldn’t hold a fork for two days.”

Sumia laughed, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as she smiled up at him. He hated to do this. Especially now, while she was in such high spirits. 

But out of everything the tactician had said, one fact had stuck painfully with him: none of this had been fair to her. He’d waited too long before, and paid the price. He had to sort this out soon. 

He had to set it straight _now._

Chrom sighed, his smile fading as he tried to find the words. “We need to talk.”

Sumia’s cheer vanished. “W-what is it?” she asked. He gestured toward the nearest chair, and she sat down, never taking her eyes off his face. Glancing down at her hands, he saw her twisting the ring on her finger. 

Gods, this was hard. Why was it so impossible to find the right thing to say to her? He’d never had this problem in front of the other Shepherds, or the nobleladies he’d courted, or even Robin--

“We’re not going back to war, are we?”

“What? No -- no, that’s…don’t worry, it’s nothing like that.”

But she didn’t seem reassured. And the truth wasn’t much better. 

Words be damned. 

“I’ve been seeing someone.”

Silence. 

He couldn’t meet her eye. But her hands had stopped turning the ring. The prince took a breath, bracing himself for the explosion that had to be coming…

“Do…I have to leave?”

That was not the response he’d expected. 

“What? No -- gods, no, of course not!” Kneeling before her, Chrom folded his hands around hers, trying to still her shaking. “I love you, Sumia. I would never send you away.”

“Did I do something, then?” she whispered. 

“It’s nothing you did. Or didn’t do,” he added. 

“Then why would you _do_ that!?” she demanded. 

“…because I’m not strong enough to put my feelings aside.”

She sniffled, pulling one hand away to wipe at her eyes. “Is it someone I know?”

“Yes.”

“Who is she?” Sumia breathed. 

“He,” Chrom corrected. 

“What?”

“Not she,” the prince repeated. “He.”

Her breath hitched as she drew her other hand away. “Who?”

“Robin.”

“… … … our tactician?” He nodded, folding his hands on his knee. “…that’s not funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.” He hadn’t considered how strange it must sound. Robin really didn’t seem the type, did he?

“…how long?”

“Several months.”

“Before we were married?”

“Yes.”

“Before…”

She couldn’t manage the words. But he knew what she meant. “Not before Emmeryn,” he murmured. “…but not long after.”

“…he was in the infirmary,” she breathed. “After what happened in the courtyard, he was always in the infirmary -- that’s why you said he had to stay, isn’t it?” He nodded, even as she continued. “It’s why he wanted to keep you safe, it’s why he was always there, it’s… … …it’s why he was acting that way in the library -- oh, gods, how could…”

She choked on the tears, pressing her hands against her eyes. “I’ll never forgive him.”

“Don’t say that.”

“He _knew_ what he was doing and he still had the -- the -- the _gall_ to tell me to be _happy!”_ she sobbed. “I thought he was my _friend…_ ”

“…a better friend than you know,” Chrom murmured. 

“How can you even _say_ that!?” she snapped. 

“Because I’m the one who’s been pressuring him,” the prince sighed. “And he’s turned me away every time because of you.”

“How can I believe you?” 

Chrom opened his mouth…

…and closed it again, raking a hand through his hair. He hadn’t considered proof. 

But he couldn’t stop now. He’d ruined too much already. He wouldn’t destroy her faith in Robin, on top of everything else. 

Rising to his feet, the prince moved to the door, opening it and gesturing to the servant tending lamps along the hall. “I need to get a message to the archives,” he said. 

“T-the archives?” the young woman repeated. 

“Yes. Tell Robin I need to see him as soon as possible.”

She nodded, wide-eyed. “Y-yes, Sire -- right away, Sire!” And then she bolted down the hall and out of sight around the nearest corner. 

Closing the door, Chrom moved to sit next to his wife. She did not look at him. But he couldn’t blame her for that--

“Why did you tell me.”

The prince glanced over at her, watching as she scrubbed hard at her eyes. “Because nothing good comes from me keeping secrets. And I can’t keep hiding things from you. It’s not fair. …it’s not _right._ ” That had been eating away at him -- and with as many mistakes as he’d already made, he was bound to make another that brought this out in a worse way…

“Why him?”

“…I don’t know,” he admitted. He hadn’t thought about _why_ before. “It didn’t happen overnight. …he was my friend, first. He proved himself while we were in Ferox the first time, fighting for Flavia -- he knew exactly what he was doing as a tactician, which made it easy to trust his judgment. Once we got back, with the daily marches and planning, we saw each other a lot. I started getting to know him. He’s a good person. Quiet, but…the kind of person you can talk to and always know they’re listening, even when they don’t say anything. And after Emm… … …he wasn’t looking to me for guidance. He saw me as someone who needed to grieve, and he told me it was okay. …I didn’t know I’d needed that, until he said it. I didn’t know I’d needed someone, until…”

He shook his head, folding his hands as he leaned forward. “He said he loved me. And it gave me an anchor. With everything that was happening, all the…the debate about whether to go back to Ylisse or into Plegia, everything in Ylisstol, and then the campaign…he was always steady. Every question I had, he would give me a calm, rational reply and a laundry list of reasons for it -- even the things I couldn’t ask myself, because I was too scared of the answers. Like whether seeing war as a solution made me like my father. I…I don’t think we’d be here without him. I would have lost myself to fear or anger or…”

His vision blurred. Blinking to clear his eyes, the prince wiped away the damp tracks on his cheeks. He wasn’t even sure when he’d started crying. But everything seemed so massive, so overwhelming, threatening to consume him -- and this time he had nothing to ground him through the storm. 

“Do you love him?”

His heart ached. “Yes.”

“More than me?” Sumia asked, her voice trembling. 

“…no. Not more. Differently,” he decided. “If he’s the ground that keeps me stable, you’re the wind that lifts me up.”

Glancing toward the pegasus knight, he watched her dry her own eyes before turning the ring on her finger again. “I understand why you can’t take my word. But will you at least listen to his?” Chrom asked. 

For a few moments, Sumia did not speak. The prince folded his hands again, trying to breathe when his chest felt crushed under the weight of the mess he’d made--

“He can have a say.”

She didn’t look at him. But after everything, that was more than he could ask for. 

A soft knock sounded behind them. “Come in,” Chrom called, standing and turning to face the door as it opened…

…and the servant appeared, head bowed and hands worrying at her apron. “My apologies, Sire, but Robin said that he’s occupied and cannot come.”

Something twisted in the prince’s chest. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, settling a hand on the back of his chair. The woman bowed deeply before retreating, closing the door behind her.

“…now what?” the pegasus knight sniffled. 

He’d been hoping not to strain his standing with the tactician any further. But if Robin wouldn’t leave the archive…

“Come with me,” Chrom said. “We’ll just have to go to him.”

***

Robin wasn’t sure if turning down a direct request from the ruler of the halidom counted as treason or not. He hadn’t seen anything about it in the magistery records or the lawbooks he’d skimmed through, but he hadn’t exactly been thorough.

The knock at the door made his heart sink. A fortnight. Better than he’d expected. He’d hoped his refusal would return some sense to the prince…but he’d prepared for this. Old habits die hard.

“Robin?” 

“If your business here does not concern the archives, I would ask you to leave, milord,” the tactician called as the door opened. 

“We just need to talk--”

“I said everything I intended to say when you were here last,” Robin replied, cutting over the prince’s words. 

“This is important.”

“Of course it is.”

Rising from his chair, the tactician moved toward bookcases, tugging his hood slightly lower over his eyes. He had come to know the ins and outs of the room by now, with its labyrinthine shelves -- if he was careful, he might be able to lose Chrom and avoid this all together…

He heard the prince moving swiftly, not behind him, but along the far aisle, cutting through another row to head him off. Perhaps the captain had learned more tactics from their engagements than he’d imagined.

He stopped as Chrom stepped into the aisle ahead of him. “Robin, please, just listen--”

“I told you last time--”

“We need to talk -- just for a few minutes, it’s important…”

The tactician reached into his breast pocket, removing a folded piece of parchment sealed with a drop of wax. “Here.”

Chrom stopped. Robin felt his hand shaking as he held the letter out, waiting for the prince to take it. “What is it?”

“It’s my official resignation from my positions as royal archivist and tactician of the Shepherds.”

A moment passed, and the captain made no move. Robin waited, fighting to keep his breath even. He had to appear calm. 

“You can’t.”

He hadn’t heard Chrom’s voice sound so small, so lost, in a long time. 

But he had to stay strong. 

“I can,” the tactician said. “I have. And I will take my leave tonight.”

“Please, don’t do this--”

“What choice have you left me!?”

Robin heard his voice splinter, drew an unsteady breath, and fought to steady himself. “If I stay here, you’ve made it clear that the past will not be left to rest. My presence is problematic, so I will remove myself.”

Chrom still refused to take the parchment. Pulling it back, the tactician creased one of the folded edges, focusing on drawing breath--

“Where would you go?”

“Ferox, I think,” he replied. “Basilio is quite a strategist in his own right. I don’t imagine he’d turn me away if I asked to study under him -- though I’m sure Flavia will throw a fit when I’m guiding his champion in the next tourney…”

Chrom stepped forward, and Robin held the letter out again. It stopped the prince, but still, he would not accept it. “Is this because I married Sumia?”

A broken laugh tore through the tactician’s chest. “Chrom, you marrying Sumia was the _whole point._ ”

Silence. Robin took a breath, forcing the emotions back as best he could. This had been so easy, once. 

“…you planned it?” 

The tactician offered a weak shrug. “Planned is a strong word. But I’d been hoping for it, yes.”

_“Why?”_

“Because I knew I never had a chance,” he murmured. “Not really. And after your sister…you would have to take a wife. For your people, your country, for _stability._ And I knew there were others -- Maribelle has lineage on her side, Sully has history -- but…I knew how Sumia felt about you. And about herself. All I did was give her a chance to prove her own worth.”

“…that’s why you told her to stay with me in the mire,” the prince breathed. 

“The wyvern was a surprise,” Robin admitted.

“Why would you do that to yourself?”

Chrom’s voice shook, and the tactician fought back a sob. “Because there was no other _way._ Not after everything that happened. I couldn’t put myself before your duty. I was content knowing you were both happy, and knowing that I could still see you. That was _enough_ for me. But everything _had_ to end with the marriage. And every time you come here, every word, every touch -- _I can’t have it anymore._ I _knew_ that, I _understood_ that, I was _prepared_ for that, and every time you say you love me it _tears me apart._ …so I have to leave. I know how to manage loneliness. And I have memories of…of something I never _dreamed_ I’d know. What more could I ask for?”

It had been a small blessing, that forethought to raise his hood. He couldn’t stop the tears, and he dared not betray them by wiping his eyes. 

The prince stepped forward again, ignoring the parchment Robin held out to him, and wrapped his arms tight around the tactician. 

Gods, he had missed this. 

“I never should have listened to you,” Robin whispered. Chrom’s breath snared, and it was everything he could do not to return the embrace. “You told me to be selfish. If I hadn’t, this…this wouldn’t be so hard.”

“Please don’t go.”

Robin shook his head, pushing the prince gently away and placing the slightly crumpled letter in his hand. “ _Please,_ Robin…”

“Goodbye, Chrom.”

The tactician turned toward the front of the archives--

Sumia stood just behind him. 

Ice poured through his veins. She was crying as she moved toward him, and he staggered back, trembling violently, his throat closing--

She fell against him. She must have tripped, and he cringed, waiting for her to right herself, preparing for the blow…

“Please don’t leave.”

Her arms curled around him and held fast. And what strength he had left dissolved into tears.

***

Sumia had wanted to stay angry. She had wanted so much to just let the rage burn, to hate Chrom for his secret and Robin for his silence, to never let it go, never forgive, never, _never…_

…but as much as that had hurt, hearing the tactician’s voice twist and break was somehow worse.

Robin hadn’t noticed her come in with Chrom. She was certain of that. Not by the words he said (even though they had made her chest feel tight and her eyes burn), but by the way he froze when he turned and saw her. The way he shook when she hugged him. 

His sob when she begged him to stay. 

The tactician buried his face in his hands, choking on the tears as the pegasus knight gently hushed him. Glancing over his shoulder, she saw the lost, helpless look on her husband’s face as he stared at the unopened letter in his hands. 

“It’s okay,” Sumia murmured, beginning to sway back and forth on her heels. “It’s okay, Robin, it’s okay…don’t cry, don’t cry…” He made a small sound, crumpling inward as she ran a hand across his shoulders. 

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I never wanted…”

She hugged him just a bit tighter, trying to still his trembling. “You could have said something,” she whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me? I would have listened if you’d just told me…”

“I couldn’t do that to you,” he sobbed. “You were so happy, I couldn’t take that away from you…”

Every word he spoke made her heart ache.

He quieted slowly as she rocked him, eventually stumbling back a step to wipe at his face under the hood. As Chrom reached out to touch his shoulder, the tactician cringed back -- and in spite of everything, the pain that flashed across the prince’s face just made her heartache worse. 

“…we should talk,” she decided.

Nodding silently, Robin drew himself up with a shaky breath. Chrom tucked the letter out of sight, moving toward the desk at the front of the library.

“Do we have to do this here?” she asked. 

“Where else would we do it?” the prince replied. 

“We were going to have him in our room.”

“That seems highly suspect,” the tactician mumbled.

“There’s a sitting room for private meetings,” she explained. “Would that be okay?”

He seemed to consider that for a minute. But eventually he nodded, wrapping his coat tighter around himself. “So long as it’s private. And has a door with a lock.”

She hadn’t thought about that. 

They spent a few moments pulling themselves together. Sumia envied Robin’s hood as she dried her eyes and prayed they weren’t too red-rimmed. When he tucked his hands into his pockets, he seemed perfectly calm -- but she had felt him shaking in her arms, had felt him break as she held him…it unnerved her, being able to see through him. Glancing toward her husband, she saw him rake one hand through his hair, drawing in a deep breath before moving toward the door. She recognized the distant look on his face. The last time she’d seen it was on the march to Ferox, after the attack on the palace -- after they lost the exalt.

She wished she could have stayed angry. 

No one spoke as they made their way down the halls and up the winding stairs. Entering the main room of the royal chambers, Sumia guided the tactician to the chairs by the fire while Chrom closed and barred the door behind them. Robin folded himself into the seat closest to the flames, pushing his hood back with a weary sigh as Sumia settled beside him. 

As Chrom sat down across from them, staring down at his folded hands, Sumia realized she didn’t know how to start. _Where_ to start. But she had to do _something,_ because everything felt _wrong_ and it would _stay_ that way if she didn’t--

“How much do you know?” Robin asked quietly, his voice nearly lost under the crackling of the fire. 

She glanced at him, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. “Chrom told me everything.”

The tactician’s head came up as he looked toward the prince. “I admit, I did not expect you to take such a direct route.”

“I didn’t see any other way,” the prince confessed. “You said yourself, it wasn’t fair to her. The secret wasn’t, either. …I’m not much of a strategist.” His laughter sounded ragged as he bowed his head. 

“…I’m sorry, Sumia,” Robin mumbled. “I wasn’t trying to…I didn’t mean to hide it, but it was supposed to be _over,_ it was--”

She hushed him gently, and his words stumbled into silence again. “It’s not your fault,” she assured him. “It’s Chrom’s fault.” 

She was still pretty mad at him. 

But his wince softened that a little. It was hard to stay angry when he looked so hopeless.

“Did he tell you that I started it?”

The pegasus knight nodded, even though the tactician wasn’t looking at her. “He said you told him you loved him.”

“Gods, you really did tell her everything, didn’t you?” Robin muttered.

“Why did you say it?” she asked.

“Because I thought he wasn’t listening at the time,” the tactician shrugged. “I never ex…nothing was ever supposed to come of it.”

“No, I mean…I mean why did you love him? Enough to say it.”

He looked at her, a brief, broken smile touching his face. “Because he smiled at me.”

She didn’t know how to respond. Turning to Chrom, she saw his head come up as the tactician huddled deeper in his chair. “It was the most trivial thing. We’d just finished routing a group of Plegian raiders, and I asked him if I could join his Shepherds. It was impulsive, and I knew better than to expect that he’d agree. But he did. And he smiled at me. Just a small kindness, and yet…I thought that time would settle it. That once I knew him better, there would be something that banished it. But he was always kind. He accepted me. Even the things others would cast me out for. Even the worst of me. …I felt safe with him. Just standing beside him. That would have been enough. It’s all I would have asked for.”

He looked so small and worn, huddled by the hearth. Rising to her feet, Sumia moved to sit on the arm of the tactician’s chair. He made no sound as the tears came, but she still felt him shaking when she touched his shoulder. “…I asked Chrom, too. Do you know what he said?”

Robin shook his head. “You two don’t talk about anything important, do you?” she sighed, glowering at her husband. “You know, this probably wouldn’t have turned into such a mess if you’d just told him what you told me.”

“I’d never thought about the reasons before today,” the prince murmured. “I just knew how I felt.”

“Do you want to know what he said?” she asked, turning back to the tactician. He nodded, wiping his eyes with the hem of his sleeve. “He said you make him feel stable. You ground him. He’s lost without you.” He hadn’t said those words exactly, but…she had a feeling it was true. And that it was behind everything. 

“He has dozens of advisors, I’m sure--”

“None I trust,” Chrom replied. “Not after what happened with the heirarch.”

Robin shuddered at the reminder. “I don’t understand the halidom well enough to advise. And even if I did, after all this…”

The prince bowed his head again. Sumia sighed, curling a lock of hair around her finger. She wanted to be mad -- she wanted more than _anything_ to be mad -- but she couldn’t seem to manage it.

…why? Why did knowing they had been together hurt so much less than seeing them broken apart like this? Why had it made her heart seize up, knowing that the tactician planned to leave and she would never see him again?

She bit her lip, twisting the ring on her finger again. “You know…I never actually thought I had a chance. To win Chrom, I mean. I didn’t think you’d be in the running, but…” She laughed, and Robin managed a faint half-smile. “Well. U-uhm. I’d…I’d always admired the captain, you know? He was so strong and kind and he looked out for all of us. Even me. Even though I was clumsy and didn’t really know what I was doing, he didn’t think less of me -- he encouraged me. I guess I idolized him. But I never thought he’d have any interest in me.”

She felt her face going red. She should probably stop now, before she said something really stupid. But she had their attention, and if she didn’t do something, then…everything would just stay broken. At least if she tried…

“You were always really nice to me, though,” she mumbled, glancing at Robin. “You didn’t just see me as some clumsy girl pretending to be a pegasus knight. You called me a _hero._ You made me _feel_ like a hero. Like I really could do anything. And…w-well…I thought about it a lot, after we got out of Plegia. Especially after you came and read to me. And after that battle with Gangrel, I’d been…I mean, I never actually thought Chrom would propose, so I’d been thinking…I-I was planning on finding you. And…and trying to spend more time with you. Because…”

They were both staring at her now. She turned the ring a few more times, taking a deep breath and trying not to think about how crazy this was. How crazy _she_ was, for even _thinking_ about doing this. 

And then she turned to the tactician, tucking the hair back behind her ear as she did. “If you want to forgive Chrom -- and I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t, he’s been an ass -- but…but if you still want to be with him, it’s okay. You can. I-if…if I could…be with you, too.”

He twitched as her hand settled over his. Sumia saw him look down at her fingers, then up at her face, his cheeks getting redder and redder as her own continued to warm. 

But at least he didn’t look so upset anymore. And the puzzled, slightly amazed expression on his face was…very charming. 

Robin’s voice was very quiet when he finally spoke. “…why?”

She smiled at him. “Because I like you. And I want you to be happy -- you _deserve_ to be happy. And to be loved, not lonely. But no matter what you want to do, please…please stay here in Ylisse.”

The tactician touched his free hand to his temple and slowly shook his head. “I can’t--”

Chrom stood up, suddenly enough that both Robin and Sumia jumped (though the pegasus knight counted her blessings that she didn’t fall off the arm of the chair). As the prince moved toward them, the tactician shrunk further into his seat, and she squeezed his fingers reassuringly.

Chrom didn’t kneel so much as fall to his knees. Robin stirred, a flicker of panic crossing his expression as he unfolded from his tight huddle--

“I’m sorry.”

The tactician stopped. Tightening her grip on his shaky hand, the pegasus knight watched her husband bow his head. “I know this mess is my fault, I know I can’t…I keep making mistakes. I wasn’t trying to put so much on you. I’ve been overwhelmed since we got back -- the responsibilities, the politics, everything, and…I didn’t mean to push you to this. I was desperate. …and I broke _everything_ that matters. With both of you.”

He reached into his pocket, withdrawing the letter Robin had handed him in the library. “If you want nothing to do with me, I understand,” the prince breathed. “After all of this…I’ll leave you be, if that’s what you want. I’ll never set foot in the archives again, I’ll do _anything,_ i-if you just…”

The parchment shook in his unsteady hands. Sumia glanced at the tactician, trying to read his expression through the roil of her own emotions…

…and after a moment, Robin sighed, slipping out of his seat and onto the floor. Taking the letter gently from Chrom’s grip, he smoothed the crumpled edges, touching the wax seal with the tips of his fingers--

Before tossing it into the fire. 

“I’ll need time,” the tactician murmured, pulling their attention away from the charring parchment. “You can come for advice. Or to talk. But anything else…we should--”

Whatever else he’d planned to say was lost as Chrom pulled him into a tight embrace. “Thank you.” And as Robin slipped his arms around the prince in turn, her husband looked up at her and smiled. “Thank you.”

As she stood up, Chrom caught her hand. And when she knelt, he pulled her close against him…and Robin’s fingers gently covered her own. 

A part of her remembered, distantly, that she should probably be angry about all of this. 

But with that warmth around her, she didn’t see the point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has taken me six months, eighteen chapters, and in excess of 125,000 words to build my ship.
> 
> As I said to my beta reader, _this isn't slow build this is like watching mountains grow._ ~~lol geology humor~~
> 
> Happy Valentine's Day <3


	19. Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of a very strange night, life at last begins to settle. Distancing themselves from the prince, Robin and Sumia forge a quiet connection -- and as their silence stretches, Chrom finally gets to the heart of the matter that brought them all to this point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: None...?**
> 
>   
> ~~I don't think I need a warning about Tharja being Tharja, at least~~
> 
> _AND WE'RE BACK._
> 
> Sorry for the long delay! I got a little bit sidetracked whipping out 60k words in six weeks. And the break was probably for the best: I'd been struggling with what exactly I wanted to happen here, and how to put it all together, but coming back to it I had no trouble getting everything together and written out. With my side project finished, I'll be back to turning out updates on a more frequent basis, though I get the feeling the next chapter will be pretty long, so it may take a while to finish. 
> 
> More perspective shifts this chapter. Dashes (-) still indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

It took time for Robin to recover some modest measure of his senses. And even when he did, the better part of himself wondered if he wasn’t dreaming, soon to wake in the garrison with the letter in his pocket and his heart heavy with guilt and grief. It seemed…frankly _impossible_ to think that any of this madness could be real.

But he never did wake up.

Eventually they picked themselves up off the floor, speaking only a few quiet words as they did. The part of his mind still capable of forethought paused long enough to offer some reasonable excuse, should the servant Chrom had sent as a messenger earlier that evening return with questions about the audience. 

Old habits.

And then the tactician quietly made his leave, returning to the archives to let his mind settle. Sitting by the window overlooking the rain-washed gardens, he tried to steady his breath, calm his confused thoughts, and put the events of the night into some semblance of order.

It proved surprisingly difficult.

In the end, though, exhaustion stopped him from pursuing further clarity. Bundling himself in his coat, Robin made his way back to the garrison, slipping unnoticed through the bunks and curling up on his own for a few hours of sleep.

He woke just after dawn. And when he reached into his coat, the letter was not there.

And with that revelation, the confusion of the night came rushing back. 

Making his way silently through the barracks, mildly disappointed that he couldn’t have slept at least until breakfast, the tactician tried once again to take stock of the situation as he headed back into the palace and up to the archives. Sumia knew everything. And had not only affirmed Robin’s feelings for her husband, but confessed her own for the tactician. And he had burned the letter.

No, none of that seemed real.

The warm, dusty scent of the library came as a welcome relief. _This,_ at least, was unchanged through the night. That familiarity proved reassuring. Comforting, even. Moving to his desk, Robin ran his fingers across the parchment he’d been poring over the night before, trying to remember where he had left off--

“So this is where you’ve been holed up.”

The tactician jumped, snatching the Thunder tome from his breast pocket as he whirled to face…

“Hey, take it easy, Bubbles. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you didn’t like me.”

Robin sighed, tucking his spellbook away as the bedraggled thief sauntered out of the bookshelves. “Gods, don’t sneak up on me like that. How long have you been there?”

“Just got here,” Gaius shrugged.

“Did you come in through the window?”

“Yeah? Where else would I have come in?”

The tactician gave him a wry look as he pointed to the door. The thief merely grinned around his lollipop. “Did you need me for something?” he asked. He thought he had paid the last of his debt while they were in Ferox…

“Just wonderin’ when we’re headin’ back to war.”

“Going back to -- what?” Robin stared for a moment, trying guess where _that_ had come from. “Why would you think we’re going back to war?”

“Whole palace is up in arms about it,” Gaius replied. “Way I hear it, Blue asked some servant to fetch you. Doesn’t take Miriel to guess why the captain needs a tactician.”

Robin’s brow furrowed slightly. “What do you mean, the whole palace?”

“Rumor mill,” the thief said. “Guessin’ the servant Blue sent told somebody, an’ then they told somebody else, an’ it spread from there. You really need to get out more.”

…he hadn’t expected word to spread quite so fast. 

“So wha’d he want, then?” Gaius asked.

“He wanted to discuss my taking on an advisory position in the court, in addition to my archivist duties here,” Robin replied automatically. It had been the simplest rationale -- and the safest, given that there was some measure of truth in it. “I turned him down. I don’t know enough to be of use.”

“Could’a fooled me,” the thief snorted. “An’ I bet you know more’n some of Blue’s advisors -- the things I hear downstairs’d make your ears burn.”

The tactician turned slowly toward Gaius, reaching into his pocket for the pouch of candies Lissa had forced on him during their last teatime with Maribelle. “What kinds of things?” he asked, setting the sachet down on the edge of the desk.

The thief glanced at Robin’s face before riveting his attention to the purse. “You lookin’ to reinstate our arrangement?”

“I am,” the tactician agreed. “Same conditions. Only this time I need anything interesting you hear…downstairs, as it were.”

“You gonna give me some lofty reason why you need gossip?” Gaius asked, sidling closer to the table.

“Would it make a difference if I did?”

“Not really, but it’s entertaining.”

A faint grin twitched at the corner of his mouth. “If I ever were to give counsel to the prince, knowing the inner workings of the court -- and especially what’s said behind closed doors -- will prove beneficial. …politics and tactics are not so different, after all.” But the battlefields were round tables, and losses paid in influence and reputation rather than blood.

Which seemed, somehow, more dangerous.

“You’ve got some strange ideas of what people talk about behind closed doors,” the thief snickered, teasing the bag out from under Robin’s fingers. “But hey, if that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get, Bubbles.”

As Gaius tried to locate a pocket that hadn’t been soaked through by the morning rain, the tactician leaned against the edge of the desk. This, too, felt familiar. Reassuring. And as his jumbled thoughts finally came to order, he dared to imagine that things might yet work out.

***

Sumia had realized, once the warm relief had faded, that she was still mad. Just not at Robin.

She didn’t like being angry. She hated the sour taste it left in her mouth and the way it burned in her stomach. But she also wasn’t ready to talk to Chrom about it. Not after what he had been doing -- both to her _and_ the tactician.

So she decided that, for everyone’s sake, it would be best if they spent some time apart.

She’d thrown herself wholeheartedly into working with the pegasus knights, teaching their new recruits about proper care and grooming, helping with flight drills and aerial sparring practice, and occasionally taking someone to the infirmary when they fell. So far there had only been one broken arm, which was apparently a good sign: Cordelia explained that in her training group, two or three breaks a week was par for the course.

But then, Sumia had a feeling that they were being a lot gentler than Cordelia’s teachers had been.

As the trainees broke for lunch, she sighed, leading her pegasus back into the stables to rest. “It’s going to be a long day, isn’t it?” she asked the winged horse as she closed the stall door. The pegasus whickered gently, nuzzling her rider’s cheek. 

“I take it today’s lessons aren’t going so smoothly?”

Sumia jumped, grabbing the door to keep from falling as she turned toward the front of the barn. Robin smiled sheepishly as he moved down the aisle toward her. “H-how did you guess?” she asked.

“I could see the…aerial drama from the archive windows. I hope you don’t mind spectators,” the tactician chuckled.

“Oh, no! Not at all!” Sumia replied. “You’re always welcome to come watch, you know, when you have time. Instead of just seeing us out the windows.”

“I just might. Lissa insists that I need to get out more.” As he joined her in front of the stall, the pegasus craned her neck toward him, snuffling at Robin’s coat before lipping his hair affectionately. “Oh! So you remember me, do you?”

“You’ve met?”

“Well, I had to get your book while we were in Ferox,” he explained, rubbing the winged horse’s nose. “She fussed a bit at first, but we came to an understanding.”

“I’ve never seen her get along so well with a boy.” She still remembered Chrom’s first attempt at approaching the pegasus -- rather gleefully, at the moment.

“Well, I’m not a bad hand with horses,” the tactician murmured. “Except Sully’s. But I think Sully’s horse is actually a wyvern. …before I joined the Shepherds, I used to make ends meet with odd jobs -- mucking stables, tending animals, that sort of thing. After a while, you start to get a sense for them. And she’s not so different from a common horse -- a bit flighty, but I suppose that’s unavoidable.”

Sumia laughed, watching as he stroked the pegasus’ neck. It struck her, suddenly, how calm he seemed. Nothing like the last time she visited him in the archives, or that night in the parlour. She wasn’t sure she’d… _ever_ seen him look so at ease before now.

“Are you feeling better?” she asked gently.

He glanced over at her, a faint pink blush coloring his cheeks. “I’m…settling. I still get rather jumpy when visitors come to the door.”

“Have you been having any more problems with…?” She glanced around to make sure that no one else was close enough to hear -- but Robin smiled and shook his head, giving the pegasus a final fond pat before heading toward the doors. Sumia petted the winged horse’s nose before hurrying to catch up, falling into step beside him as they moved into the spring sunshine.

“He’s been minding his manners,” the tactician said quietly as they made their way across the lawn. “He’s come to the archives a few times, asking for advice or assistance in looking into some rather obscure court matters, but he’s been respectful.”

“I’m glad,” she sighed. “I haven’t seen much of him since…w-well, you know.”

“The royal tiff,” he grinned. “That’s what they’re calling it, you know.”

“W-who?” she asked, feeling her cheeks starting to heat up.

“The castle staff.” Robin shrugged, tucking his hands into his pockets. “As I hear, you haven’t given him the time of day in the better part of a week.”

“I’m still not happy with him,” she muttered. “And I hope you’re not here to convince me to talk to him, either.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I’ve been keeping to strict formality with him, myself.”

Well, that made her feel a little better.

“So you haven’t forgiven him, either?”

“I haven’t even accepted his apology yet,” the tactician replied. “I only agreed not to leave.”

“…I’m glad you did,” she murmured, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. 

He glanced over at her, ducking his head slightly. “I never had a chance to thank you.”

“For what?”

“…for not hating me.”

“Why would I hate you?” she asked. “It wasn’t your fault…”

“But I could have told you. And I didn’t. …I am sorry about that.”

She smiled and shook her head. “Well, I _will_ accept your apology. But it seems like both of you have that problem of not saying things you really should.”

“I’ll try to improve on that,” he chuckled. Which she had to admit was a start.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, the green lawn giving way to the castle gardens. It was nice…but there were things that she really needed to say, too. “Y-you know, I’ve been meaning to come see you, but…”

She still couldn’t believe she’d said it. Not because it wasn’t true, but because it was… _crazy._

Robin’s face went a little redder. “I wasn’t sure…what to expect,” he mumbled, hunching his shoulders. “This…has all been very strange.”

“Not in a bad way, I hope?”

“No! Oh, no, of course not, i-it’s just…”

He was starting to look a bit like a cherry. Which made her feel slightly less embarrassed. At least she wasn’t alone in feeling uncertain. “Well, how did things start last time?”

“About like this,” the tactician mumbled, pulling his hood down over his eyes. “With me feeling very flustered about not knowing what to do.”

Sumia giggled, lacing her fingers behind her back. “Well…maybe we could start by just…talking?” When she thought about it, she didn’t actually know much about Robin. She knew he came from Ferox, read as avidly as she did, carved when he didn’t have a book, and apparently worked with animals before he joined the Shepherds. And that was about all. But he’d always been nice to her. From the very first battle they fought together, he’d seen her as more than just a klutz.

He smiled, lifting the peak of his hood slightly. “I’d like that.”

Beaming to herself, Sumia felt her steps begin to bounce as she walked. “Well, what do you want to talk about?”

He didn’t answer. And when she looked, he wasn’t next to her anymore. Glancing over her shoulder, she found the tactician walking a pace behind, his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground; her stomach knotted as she fell back into step beside him. “What’s the matter?”

“Speaking of…things I should say,” he mumbled. “Before you decide that you want anything to do with me, you need to know…I-I’m certain that you’d hear it eventually in the royal court, but I’d rather tell you myself…”

This sounded bad. She braced herself for… _something,_ she didn’t even _know_ what -- she could think of all sorts of bad things coming from Chrom, but she couldn’t imagine _what_ Robin might have to confess…

He took a deep breath, tugged the edge of his hood down a bit further…and then pushed it back again as he turned to look at her. “I’m Grimleal.”

A moment passed. 

But he didn’t say anything else, and the pegasus knight frowned, her brow knitting in confusion. “Is that it?”

He blinked, seeming surprised. “Uhm. Yes?”

“What’s so bad about that?”

“Be…because I’m Plegian? Most of the court has already branded me as a heretic trying to twist the mind of the prince--”

She scoffed, her steps beginning to lighten again as they walked the cobbled paths. “Well, _that’s_ not true.”

“Technically the heretic part is.”

“No it’s not!”

“From the standpoint that I’m a Grimleal in the lands that worship Naga, it is.”

Sumia opened her mouth to protest…and then frowned. “Okay, I suppose _that_ part is true. But it doesn’t make you a bad person!”

“The court would say it does,” he muttered.

“Well, I’m not the court,” she huffed. “And I don’t think you’re a heretic. And I didn’t know you were Plegian! I thought you were from Ferox.”

“Well, I was born in Plegia, but my mother took me to Ferox while I was still an infant. The campaign was really my first time in the land of my birth.”

“…not much of a homecoming, was it,” she mumbled.

“It’s alright,” he smiled. “It was never my home. Just my birthplace. And I’m glad I saw it, even if it wasn’t under the best circumstances. So where are you from? Are you a native Ylissean, or…?”

“I am!” she agreed. “My whole family’s from Ylisse. I even grew up around Ylisstol!”

“Really?”

She nodded, stepping slightly ahead and spinning on the walk with her arms outstretched. “My father’s a groundskeeper -- he designs these _beautiful_ gardens, and when word started getting around to the nobles, _every_ family seemed to want something from him. Chrom even asked if he could take care of all this.”

“So this is your father’s handiwork?” the tactician murmured, reaching out to touch one of the new saplings lining the path as she nodded. “It’s lovely. I quite enjoy looking out here in the evening.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him how much you enjoy it,” the pegasus knight giggled. “My mother is a florist -- there were always flowers around our house growing up, and she would cut them and take them to sell in Ylisstol. She’s wonderful at arranging them, too -- when my father started to get so much attention, she would go to help, and earned her own reputation for her bouquets. They’ve always done a lot of work together, and…I always hoped, growing up, that my marriage would be as happy as theirs.”

She paused as Robin touched her shoulder. “It will work out,” he promised.

“How can you be so sure?” she asked.

“Because for all his faults and flaws -- and gods know, there are _many_ of them,” the tactician grumbled, which made her smile despite herself, “Chrom is a good man. He can put things right if he tries.”

…and he had been trying, hadn’t he? In little ways, maybe, but…he’d brought her flowers a few times. He’d asked her about how things were going with the pegasus knights, and even talked a bit about the court (though she hadn’t understood too much of that). He wasn’t getting to the heart of the matter, exactly, but…he was trying.

“Do you think I should forgive him?” she asked.

“Oh, gods, no,” Robin muttered. “Not until he’s earned it. Good behavior is not the same as repentance.”

“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” Sumia laughed.

“You don’t seem like the type to get on anyone’s bad side,” the tactician replied. “And especially not mine.”

She felt her face heating up. “Flatterer.”

He smiled gently, tucking his hands in his pockets as they came around to the front of the palace. “I should probably get back to work,” he chuckled. “I’ve found a few more books you might like, though. You should visit, when you have a free moment.”

“I will,” Sumia promised. “…take care.”

“And you,” he bowed. As Robin turned into the castle, the pegasus knight headed back down the garden path, her steps still feeling light and easy as she made her way toward the stables. It was nice to know that she wasn’t alone. That she had a friend on her side, who didn’t think she was being too harsh for too little reason. That…he trusted her, enough to tell her about something so personal, and so dangerous -- even though it didn’t make any difference to her, she could tell how much it worried him.

It had been nice to see him relax, for once. Maybe, someday, she’d see him that calm again.

And if she was lucky…maybe she could bring him that calm, herself.

***

“Thank you again.”

“It’s my pleasure, milord.”

Chrom offered a wan smile, inclining his head toward the tactician as he tucked the folded piece of parchment out of sight. “Gods know, I’ll probably be back soon with something else.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

The prince paused, and Robin glanced up at him, tracing the Eyes under his glove with a fingertip as he waited for Chrom to speak. But in the end, he only closed his eyes, shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. “I appreciate this. I’d be lost without your help.”

“Think nothing of it,” the tactician murmured. And with a final nod, the prince retreated from the archives.

Sighing to himself, Robin leaned back in his chair. Gods, Sumia had been exactly right: Chrom really _didn’t_ talk about the important things. Clearly something troubled him…he just wasn’t voicing it. But until he slipped, the tactician could only wait: he could not guess what was on the prince’s mind, and he certainly couldn’t prod the man into fixing things.

Though it did leave a curious ache in his chest, seeing Chrom in such turmoil.

The door opened again, and Robin stood, half-expecting -- well, half- _hoping_ \-- that the prince had come back…

…and paused as a dark-haired woman stepped inside. He recognized her, if only vaguely: the sorceress Chrom had recruited during the attack on Plegia’s courtyard, the one who had helped to rescue him in the mire -- and who, as he recalled, had asked Gaius for hexing material.

“May I help you with something?” he asked warily.

She grinned, closing the door behind her. “I’ve been wondering where you’ve been,” she purred. 

“I…is there something you needed from me?”

“You could say that,” she replied. “I’ve been trying to find you since you started hiding away. I’ve missed you.”

“I. What?” Oh, gods, this was uncomfortable. “I don’t…think we’ve ever been introduced. You are…?”

“Tharja,” she replied, offering a deep bow. “At your service, Grima.”

Stepping back, the tactician struggled to rein in the surge of panic that shot through him. “My name is Robin,” he corrected.

“No need to be shy,” the dark mage chuckled, moving toward him. “I know _exactly_ who you are.”

She reached for his marked hand and he flinched away, holding his arm behind him. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Miss Tharja.”

“Oh, come now,” she pouted, stepping closer. “You don’t need to hide it. Not from me -- we’re alike, you and I. The _only_ two of our kind here in this godsforsaken country. I’m the _only_ person you can trust with who you _really_ are.”

“You’re wrong.”

“ _Am_ I?”

“Yes,” he said, trying to be firm and hearing his voice shake even still. “About who I am, and about the people here.”

She took another step toward him, and he retreated -- only to find the desk at his back, blocking his escape. And when he tried to shift around it, her hands came to rest on either side of him, her dark eyes fixed on his face as he tried desperately to press himself into the table. “Is that why you hide your Eyes?” she pressed. “Because you can _trust_ these people?”

“My Eyes are not who I am,” he insisted, his voice faint and his head beginning to swim.

“Grima--”

_“Robin.”_

“--your Eyes are _proof_ of who you are. A _god, reborn_ for us--”

“I’m just a man--”

“--and I am _yours_ to command.”

“Please step back, then,” he whispered, trying to remember how to breathe through the all-consuming panic crushing his chest--

A knock sounded at the door.

They both looked toward it, Tharja easing back as the tactician tried to push himself further away from her. Oh, gods, please, whoever it was, he hoped they wouldn’t leave…

“Robin?”

Sumia peered inside, her expression turning from cheer to confusion to concern as she took in the no-doubt-awkward scene. “O-oh. Uhm. Am I interrupting something…?”

“No,” the tactician replied frantically.

“Yes,” the dark mage growled in the same instant.

The pegasus knight frowned as she looked between them. “Did you need something?” Robin asked, hoping he didn’t sound quite as desperate as he felt.

“Y…yes,” she nodded, slowly at first, but with growing conviction. “You said you knew about horses, right? W-well, my pegasus has been walking a little funny today, and I’m having trouble getting her to stand still so I can take a look -- would you mind giving me a hand?”

“Get someone else to help,” Tharja snapped.

“She’s skittish with other people,” Sumia insisted. “And she likes you. Do you think you could help me get a look?”

“O-of course,” he nodded, offering a faintly apologetic smile to the dark mage as he slid away from her and hurried to the pegasus knight’s side. “Has it just been today, or did it start yesterday? It could be something got stuck in there, or maybe -- has she been shod lately? …do pegasi need horseshoes?” he asked as the door closed behind them. “I mean, I can think of a few other things, but shoeing is the least worrisome one…”

“Oh, she’s fine.”

He stopped and stared at Sumia. She beamed, hooking his arm in hers and tugging him along down the hall. “But…but you just said…”

“She was favoring a foot this morning, but Cordelia and I got her checked out -- it was a pebble,” she confessed. “But you looked like you needed a rescue.”

Gods, she didn’t know the half of it. He mustered up a shaky smile, hurrying after her as she turned down another hall and up a flight of stairs into a small, pleasantly decorated room. Leaning back against the door, he listened for any sound of footsteps following them…but he heard nothing, and breathed a slow sigh of relief.

“H-hey. Are you okay?”

He blinked as the pegasus knight touched his shoulder, stepping away from the door and trying to catch his breath. “I’ll be fine,” he assured her, slipping his hands into his pockets to hide their trembling.

“Are you sure?” Sumia pressed. “You really don’t look so good -- do you need to sit down? O-or maybe a drink or something? Do…do you need a hug?”

Robin drew a breath to protest that none of that was necessary…

…and stopped, biting his lip as he nodded. 

She stepped closer, putting her arms gently around him. And she still smelled of lilacs as he returned her embrace, trying to calm his ragged nerves and convince himself that he was safe -- for a moment, at least…

“You’re shaking.”

He drew another unsteady breath as she led him to a plush chair by the window, sitting heavily and folding his hand tight over his Eyes. “Thank you,” he managed, leaning back as her hand moved across his shoulders.

“What happened back there?” she asked.

“Being a Grimleal in Ylisse attracts unwanted attention,” he mumbled. “Even from other Grimleal.”

“Do you think she’ll try to bother you again?”

Gods, he hoped not. But judging by her words and demeanor… “It’s very possible.”

Sumia said nothing else for a few moments. The tactician took a deep breath, released it…and drew another, wrapping his coat tight around him to soothe his frayed sense of calm. He’d hoped that things would settle after the war, why did he still spend half his time on the verge of panic--

“You should come back with me.”

Glancing up at her, he saw the pegasus knight smile shyly. “Come back…?”

“To the stables. Watch us practice. The new recruits are getting a lot better -- hopefully you won’t see anyone take too bad a fall. You said you needed to get out more, and…well, now seems like a really good time to get out, I think. And I can…I mean, if something happens…I’ll be close, to give you another escape.”

…well, given his reason for leaving, he should probably stay away from the library for a while. The possibility of having another deeply uncomfortable encounter with Tharja was…frankly terrifying. And he did feel better with Sumia around. “You really are a hero,” he murmured. 

She smiled, her face going slightly red as she offered her hand to help him up. “Flatterer.”

“You are to me,” he insisted, rising to his feet with her aid. “Thank you.”

“It’s the least I can do,” she murmured, squeezing his fingers. “And…you know you can always come to me if you need help, right? With anything at all. Whether it’s…stupid boys or creepy girls or just putting books in order. You just have to say the word and…and I’ll be there.”

“You’re busy with the knights, though,” he pointed out. “I wouldn’t want to interrupt--”

“Oh, no, no excuses,” she chided, gently hooking his arm again. “I don’t want to hear any ‘buts’ about this. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course.” He liked to think so, at least -- it was…still strange to think that she wanted him to be something more…

“Well, friends do things for each other. And even if I can’t do it right then, I’ll make sure I’ll do it as soon as I can. Especially if it’s someone bothering you. …I’ll always be your hero, Robin.”

He felt his face prickle with warmth at those words. And a quick glance confirmed that she had gone equally red.

Tentatively resting his hand on her arm, the tactician felt a smile touch the corners of his mouth. “I’ll have to write an epic tale about you someday. All the greatest heroes deserve to become legends.”

_“Flatterer!”_ she laughed, nudging him with her shoulder before unlinking their arms and opening the door for him. Inclining his head to her, Robin peered out into the hall…and, seeing no one, he tucked his hands into his pockets, following the pegasus knight out of the sitting room and down to the training grounds to spend an afternoon at peace.

***

Chrom tried to remember what it had been like before. Before they lost Emmeryn. Before the responsibilities. Before the court, and the meetings, and the petty squabbles between nobles took up the whole of his day, back when he had been able to get things _done_ that actually _helped_ the people of the halidom. Or at least kept them safe.

He tried. But for the first time, he couldn’t seem to recall. All he could think of were the voices of his advisors, the aristocrats, the ministers, vying for his attention and favor.

He tapped at the door of the archives and waited. Drawing in a deep breath -- as best he could manage, at least -- the prince tried to focus on something else. Anything else. 

And still, those voices clamored in the back of his mind.

Maybe the tactician had stepped out for once. It would be a miracle, from everything Chrom had seen up to now, but a welcome one. Robin desperately needed to get out more.

Even if it left the captain’s stomach twisted into knots of unease--

“Come in!”

He almost missed the voice beyond the door. Slipping inside, the prince looked around for any sign of life -- he hadn’t been imagining things, had he? As though he didn’t have enough worries…

“Twice in a day?”

Chrom turned his attention to the far wall, watching as Robin carefully made his way down off the ladder with a half dozen books tucked under his arm. “This is a surprise. What brings you this time, milord?”

A weak smile flickered across the prince’s face. “I hoped you might have time to talk.”

“Well, if you don’t mind waiting a bit longer on the morning’s inquiry…”

“There’s no rush on that. It’s not vital.”

“In that case.” The tactician placed the tomes on the edge of the desk before taking a seat, gesturing for Chrom to take the other. The prince did, gratefully, leaning forward with his hands folded. “What’s on your mind?”

“…I don’t know how Emmeryn did this.”

“Overseeing the halidom?” Chrom nodded. “Frankly I don’t know how your sister managed _most_ things. But from everything you’ve brought to me, I get the sense that she made extensive use of advisors.”

“Either they behaved better under her or they think I’m easier to manipulate.”

“Well, you did say that she fought them at every step,” Robin murmured, leafing through one of the books piled on the table. “Change will always encounter resistance.”

“… … …I don’t…”

He stopped. And so did the tactician, the rustling of pages and parchment going still. Chrom rubbed the back of his neck, waiting for Robin to return to his research and trying to think of something else to say that didn’t come from the lingering whispers dragging down his thoughts--

“What is it?”

The prince glanced up to find the tactician’s full attention on him. Not the cool, distant look he’d been getting so used to, but something intent. Something open.

He’d forgotten that, too.

“I don’t think I can do this.”

The words sounded so small. But the weight of them made his shoulders slump further.

Robin closed his book, folding his hands on the cover. And as much as Chrom wanted to stop, that silent invitation was so familiar. So tempting. “Every day, all I hear are voices trying to twist my head. The nobles are up in arms because I married Sumia instead of someone from an aristocratic line, my advisors are demanding that I push Plegia for reparations which risks inciting another war, every member of the council seems hell-bent on molding me into the image of my father, and I…”

He could hear his own voice shaking as he pressed his face into his hands. “I feel like I’m slipping. And I’m scared. I don’t want to become my father, I _never_ wanted to turn into him, but the more they push the less sure I am that I can fight it, a-and…”

What would happen, if he fell? Who would he hurt? Who would he lose?

Would Robin’s be the first blood?

He did not hear the tactician rise. But Chrom realized, suddenly, that Robin was standing before him as gloved fingers smoothed his hair.

“You’re a damn fool,” the tactician sighed. “You could have said something, you know.”

“I’d already made so many mistakes--”

“Explaining yourself isn’t a mistake. Opening up isn’t a mistake. …though, to be fair, I’m not exactly the best in that regard, myself. I suppose that would make me the pot to your kettle.”

The prince choked out a laugh. And as he struggled to draw himself up, Robin’s hands gently cupped his face and lifted his head. It had been so long since Chrom had seen that smile -- it made his breath catch, his heart twist, his eyes burn--

“I told you that I would pull you up if you fell, didn’t I?” the tactician asked. “I meant that. And I still do. …I accept your apology.”

The prince stared. But Robin’s smile didn’t change.

Chrom reached out, tentatively wrapping his arms around the tactician’s waist and pulling him closer. And Robin went without argument, stepping forward to meet him as the prince pressed his cheek to the soft knit shirt.

“Now, you’ll have to make your own peace with Sumia,” the tactician murmured, smoothing the captain’s hair with a steady hand. “I recommend you be honest. And be prepared for her to hit you. You would deserve it.”

“I know,” Chrom mumbled thickly.

“Do that first. …and then we can start working on a solution to your council problem.”

“…we?” The prince peered up at Robin, hoping that hadn’t been a slip.

“Yes,” the tactician agreed. “We. Sumia is sick to death of etiquette lessons, and you’ll need to introduce her to the workings of the noble court at some point, yes?”

“I don’t know.” He couldn’t remember if his mother had been involved with the court or not--

“For your own sanity, I’d recommend it. …and also for my safety. Call me craven, but I’d rather have you both in my corner if I’m to sit at your right.”

“…you’d be willing?”

“Even though I’ll be there to pull you up after a fall, I think we’d all prefer if you didn’t fall to begin with,” Robin murmured. “So stop trying to take the whole of the halidom on your shoulders. …do you remember what else I said, the night this all started?”

“I missed a lot of the beginning,” Chrom admitted. 

“That was nothing of consequence. I’m referring to the important part. I know you at least heard part of it.”

He smiled, holding the tactician tighter. “You said you’d stand with me. And…help to bear my burden.”

“I can only do that if you’ll let me,” Robin insisted. “I can’t know your troubles unless you tell me. So please, Chrom…” And after everything, hearing the tactician speak his _name_ again brought such _relief_ \-- “…talk to me. To _us._ You’re not alone -- you never have been, if you’d stop to think sometimes.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” the prince mumbled.

“Good. Now how about you go talk to your wife?”

“…will you come with me?” Chrom asked softly.

“You’re going to have to do all the talking yourself,” Robin warned.

“I know. But I feel stronger with you beside me.”

The tactician’s soft laughter rocked him, and the prince tightened his embrace as Robin patted his hair. “Gods, no wonder Sumia keeps calling me a flatterer, that does sound ludicrous. All right, come on, let’s get this business settled.”

Rising to his feet, Chrom leaned close, resting his forehead against the tactician’s. “Thank you for giving me a chance.” He might have a great deal more to prove before anything was right again -- but at last, he felt like he was back on stable ground. And with that foundation to shore him up, the voices finally fell silent.


	20. Noble Manner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Chrom and Robin begin to push for reform in Ylisse, internal strife among the halidom's class system begins to stir. To smooth the nobility's ruffled feathers, the ruling house arranges for the ball of the century -- and unfortunately for Robin, he is not exempt from the festivities...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: Mild Language, Explicit Sex**
> 
>   
> _AND WE'RE BACK **AGAIN**._
> 
> It's been a while! This chapter ended up being significantly longer than initially anticipated at a whopping _13,000 words_ , and pulling it all together ~~amid anxiety crises over writing _gee thanks brain_~~ was a bit challenging...but I hope that it was worth the wait to see Robin beribboned and laced. 
> 
> **UPDATE:** I finally caved and wrote the _extremely NSFW scene_ to cap off the chapter. If you want to read it, it picks up right from the end; if you don't, just don't go past the last scene break. ~~and now I'm going to go hide~~
> 
> More perspective shifts this chapter. Dashes (-) still indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Again, this story was originally written with my custom avatar in mind, but the version posted here uses the default Avatar name and appearance for the sake of readability. If something seems out of place, please let me know so I can get it fixed up!

Robin was right: Sumia did hit him. Hard enough to stagger him, in fact. But Chrom felt better afterward, as she helped him up with a smile. At least it seemed to settle some of the tension between them. 

And with the air cleared, they all settled together around a small table and began to talk about the biggest problem they all faced: the court. For all that he insisted that he was unfit for an advisory role, the tactician seemed to have a better grasp on the inner workings of the halidom than Chrom did, what worked and what likely needed to change -- and the suggestions he laid out were nothing short of _radical._ The prince could say, with certainty, that the council would be _livid._

He couldn’t wait. 

“Are you ready?” Chrom asked, watching as Robin rolled his parchment a bit tighter. 

“Not in the least.”

“Do you still want to do this?”

“Do I still have your backing?”

“Without question.”

“Then yes.”

“I like that answer.”

Patting the tactician’s shoulder, Chrom pushed his way into the meeting hall, striding confidently to the head of the table and gesturing to the empty seat at his right. He watched as the withered old men turned their attention from the prince to the pale-haired man a few paces behind, who moved to stand behind the indicated chair. A few of them went ghastly white. Several others flushed red with rage. Most began to shake. 

“Please be seated,” Chrom said. 

Only he and Robin actually did so.

“Milord, what is the meaning of this!?” the nobleman to his left demanded. 

“The meaning of what?” he replied calmly as the tactician began to spread his papers out across the table before him. 

“What is _that man_ doing here?” the councilman hissed. 

“I asked Robin if he would consider supporting me in an advisory role,” Chrom explained. “He accepted.” It was very hard to keep a straight face as the aristocrat began to sputter and turn purple. Gods, he was enjoying this. 

_“Milord,”_ another man spoke up, his expression calm in spite of his trembling hands. “You may not be aware of this fact -- gods know your _blessed_ sister was somewhat… _remiss_ in aspects of your education -- but _that man_ is a _Plegian._ ”

“By birth, perhaps,” the prince agreed. “But he has no ties to Plegia. And in case you’ve forgotten, this is the man that guided us to victory against Gangrel.”

“You honor me,” the tactician murmured, his polite smile touching the corners of his eyes. 

“We owe you a mounting debt of gratitude,” Chrom smiled. “But considering his service, I see no problem with him joining the council. Objections?” 

“You can’t trust a _Grimleal heathen_ with matters of the halidom’s safety,” someone snarled -- but silence fell immediately as the prince stood, his hands flat on the table and his stare cutting across the room. 

“I entrusted my life to this man on the battlefield, both within our borders and in foreign lands,” he said, his voice low and even and sending every one of the old men shrinking down into their chairs at last. “He has _never_ failed me. I would _gladly_ trust him with matters of the halidom’s security when he has so _staunchly_ proven his loyalty to a cause beyond his own interests.”

Most of them flinched. Just as Robin had predicted. 

“I ask again. Objections?”

No one spoke. 

“Good.” Chrom cast a cold smile around the table, taking his seat once again. “Now, then: I believe introductions are in order. As many of you are already aware, this is Robin, the Shepherds’ tactician.” The man at his right bowed his head slightly, removing a small inkwell and quill from his coat and arranging the parchment before him. Gesturing to the man on his left, the prince offered a pointed look. “If you would be so kind.”

They spoke, one by one and at great length on their storied pedigrees: Auber, Ulyes, Hampton, Forsythe, Levan, Shoure. Several chairs had remained empty since their return to Ylisse, though not for lack of plying on the part of other noble families; most notably, in Chrom’s mind, was the seat that the hierarch had once filled -- even now the thought of it left him feeling restless, angry, betrayed. But he attempted to maintain an air of calm as he remarked on the vacancies, waiting for the inevitable petitions from the other councilmen that such a point invited. 

“Beg pardon, Milord, but might I raise a point of interest?”

The prince glanced over at Robin, noting with surprise that he’d already filled two pages with writing and had started on a third. “Of course,” Chrom nodded. 

“Well…I notice that, excepting myself, everyone here is a nobleman. Yes?” Glancing around the table, the prince watched as the assembled councilmen nodded in agreement. “Why are there no other commoners on the council?”

“That’s preposterous,” Auber huffed. “ _Lowborns_ have no place on a _royal_ council--”

“Why not?”

The nobleman stared down the table as the tactician scribbled something on his parchment. “What do you mean, _why not?”_

“What precisely disqualifies commoners from holding positions on the council?” Robin reiterated patiently. 

“Their _birth,_ to begin with,” Forsythe grunted, folding his thick hands with some difficulty. “A _baseborn_ man simply cannot provide anything of value as an advisor: they lack intelligence, education, character, honor…”

“All things that could therefore be said of me, yes?” the tactician smiled. 

Silence. The aristocrats glanced at Chrom, whose stare dared any of them to speak; they wisely refrained.

“I admit, I do not have formal education or training in any institution, academic or military. But the captain -- pardon, Lord Chrom -- feels that I have something beneficial to offer this council, hence his invitation. Why, then, would others not have similar value? The life of a commoner in Ylisse is quite different from the life of a nobleman: likely they have a very different view on important issues affecting the halidom…and perhaps even on what those issues may be. As ruler of Ylisse, should you not seek out as much information as possible, from as many _outlooks_ as possible, so that the government might serve the needs of _all_ its peoples?”

“That is _absolutely ludicrous,”_ Ulyes sputtered, heaving himself up from his chair with the aid of his silver-tipped cane.

“Why?” the prince asked, watching out of the corner of his eye as Robin began to scribble more notes across the page. “It seems perfectly reasonable to me. We have empty seats to fill--”

“And more than enough noble families who would be happy to guide you on the proper course,” Shoure wheedled.

“Which would serve to limit, rather than broaden, any overarching understanding of the peoples’ concerns,” the tactician murmured. 

“--and I think we need to look beyond the aristocracy. The halidom does not serve nobles alone. It serves _all_ Ylisseans,” Chrom finished.

“Will we at least be allowed to _approve_ these proposed appointees to the council?” Levan asked smoothly. 

The prince glanced toward Robin, who tapped his quill lightly on the parchment, apparently deep in thought; looking down, he read the line of cramped script isolated halfway down the page: _they will veto any non-noble given the opportunity._ Fighting back a wry smile, Chrom folded his hands before him and inclined his head very slightly in Levan’s direction. “I will consider it.” Smiling in clear satisfaction, the aristocrat sat back in his chair; after a few moments of quiet grumbling, the rest of the nobles followed suit. 

The rest of the discussion felt very familiar, after the initial excitement: financial matters, taxation, the concerns over security with the guard still recovering -- but rather than the frustrating sense of being cast adrift in the political maelstrom, the prince felt more grounded than he had in months. With Robin beside him scribbling endlessly along with the nobles’ words, jotting notes for Chrom’s benefit in a slightly more legible script than the cramped writing that filled the rest of his papers, silently guiding the prince on through the veiled messages and hidden motives concealed behind their pleasant words, he finally felt like he stood a fighting chance of getting something accomplished.

He’d missed having the tactician by his side. Far more than he could find words to say. 

At midday, Chrom adjourned the meeting outright, citing the need to plan the best way to choose new members for the council -- which, he promised, they could discuss when next they met. That, at least, seemed to placate the old men enough to retire with a minimum of griping; once the room stood empty, the prince took to his feet, leaning against the back of Robin’s chair as the man gathered his sheaf of parchment. “I didn’t expect you to lead off with that,” he remarked. 

“Well, the direct approach does have its advantages,” the tactician chuckled, rising and tucking the papers under his arm. 

“How much did you write?” Chrom asked as they moved out into the hall. 

“I’m not sure,” Robin shrugged, flipping idly through the pages. “Five, six, seven…”

“What were you even writing? Besides notes to me.”

“Oh, everything of interest. Their pedigrees, their reactions to various points raised, the words they chose to use as they made their arguments…who sat where, and who talked to who else -- these men don’t necessarily like one another, if Forsythe’s muttering during Ulyes’ remarks is any indication…”

“Wait, what?”

“You didn’t notice?” 

“Not at all. See, this is why I need you in there.”

“I’m honored, milord.”

Rolling his eyes, the prince pushed the door to the archives open, glancing around as the tactician moved deeper into the library. Closing the door behind them, Chrom followed, listening to the man’s soft humming as he ran his hands along the shelves. “Looking for anything in particular?” he asked. 

“I saw something in here while I was cataloguing -- a text on Chon’sin, something about a civil service examination…? I thought it might be a good place to start devising some criteria for the council to debate over, though I imagine those men will try to warp anything we present until it grossly favors the nobility…”

“Have you thought about getting something to eat first?”

“No -- should I have?” the tactician asked.

“Yes,” the prince replied. “Take a break. Sumia said she was going to make a picnic for us,” he added, grinning sidelong at Robin as the man went faintly pink.

“…I wouldn’t want to disappoint Sumia,” the tactician mumbled.

“I didn’t think so,” Chrom smiled, slipping an arm gently around Robin’s waist and steering him back toward the front of the archives. “...thank you, by the way.”

“For what?” the tactician asked, glancing at the prince as he tucked his hands into his pockets.

“For all your help. I couldn’t do this without you,” Chrom murmured. 

“Well, there’s still quite a lot more to do,” Robin sighed. “But I’m happy to be of assistance. …and happier still to have your support.”

“Always,” the prince assured him. As they reached the door, he paused…and turned thoughtfully toward the tactician. “Can I kiss you?”

“What?”

The faint color that had mostly faded from Robin’s face returned in force as Chrom shrugged, feeling rather sheepish. “I know I still have a lot of work to do before we’re…you know, back where we were. But I really wanted…and I thought I’d ask before I did anything, since…well…”

Now he was feeling flustered. The tactician had gone bright red -- but, the prince noticed, he did not move to raise his hood. And after a quick glance around them to be sure they were well and truly alone…Robin nodded, running a hand shyly through his hair. 

Stepping close, Chrom touched a gentle kiss to the tactician’s lips. Gods, he had missed this. The soft warmth spilling through him, Robin’s breath on his cheek as he pulled away…and most of all, the faint smile on the tactician’s face as he lifted his cowl, hiding the blush that had completely overtaken his cheeks. “This doesn’t mean you’re forgiven,” Robin warned. 

“I know. But I appreciate it. Do you need a minute?” the prince chuckled, resting his hand on the door. 

“Do I look passable?” the tactician asked, tugging his hood a bit lower. 

“I don’t see anything suspicious.”

“Then there’s no need to keep Sumia waiting.”

Chrom grinned, opening the door onto the hall and fighting back the urge to offer Robin a bow as he passed. And as they headed toward the warm gardens, the prince felt the distance between them narrowing, bit by bit, toward where they had once been.

***

Sumia’s picnic was nothing short of lovely. Apparently she’d managed to sneak down to the kitchens and, with a bit of help and guidance from the bemused cooks, had pulled together something that -- in Robin’s mind -- seemed frankly lavish, including three whole pies with various fillings, several warm loaves of freshly baked bread, and a half-dozen crowberry tarts glazed with honey; the sharp yellow cheese and thick slices of ham had, she confessed, been packed as more of an afterthought once the baking was done. The tactician had been amazed that everything fit in the basket.

But even though the conversation had focused heavily on the morning’s council meeting, Robin had to admit that it was nice: the warm sunshine filtering through the leaves, the scent of flowers on the breeze, the delicious meal shared between the three of them…and most of all, the feeling that he was not alone. 

He hadn’t realized how much he missed that. 

“So do you think you can get them to accept new members on the council?” Sumia asked, riffling through Robin’s notes and trying to avoid scattering breadcrumbs across the pages. 

“With a bit of care, yes. And possibly a bit of force,” he admitted, polishing off a third tart (and pretending not to notice as the prince pushed yet another toward him). “The standing members are bound to oppose any non-noble addition, so Chrom may need to push back against their attempts to revise the criterion for choosing new members, or even appoint without approval. Though I would imagine you’d prefer the former to the latter.”

“Agreed,” the prince muttered around a bite of rhubarb and fiddlehead pie. 

“Is this your working draft?” Sumia ventured, holding out a piece of parchment. The tactician nodded, reaching for a slice of fiddlehead pie (only for Chrom to pull it out of reach, which earned him a pointed look from both Robin and the pegasus knight). “This all seems fine to me. Service in some form of council, community engagement…”

“I’d like to put down a few more points -- I’m sure there’s something in the archives that can help with that -- but placing the emphasis on experience may help us to block some measure of resistance,” Robin said. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but judging from the reactions to the proposal, I don’t get the sense that many of the nobles have much experience with commoners.”

“Outside the Shepherds, you’d be right,” Chrom nodded. “I think Maribelle, Ricken, and Sully are the only nobles who’ve had any real contact with people outside the court.”

The tactician nearly choked on his bread. “Sully’s a noblewoman?” 

“You didn’t know?”

“I thought she was a knight!”

“She _is_ a knight -- the title passes through her house, but Sully wanted to earn it for herself,” the prince explained.

“She doesn’t act anything like Maribelle, so it’s not easy to guess,” Sumia giggled.

“...assuming the experience criteria remain unchanged, it could make our noble Shepherds eligible -- do you think the council would accept them?”

“Doubtful,” Chrom snorted, polishing off the fiddlehead pie. “They’re going to insist that the Shepherds are too young. They’d opt for the parents or grandparents -- some of them already have.”

“Perhaps that is a bit much to ask for as a first pass. I’m sure we’ll be able to pull something together. Especially if you’ll be joining us,” Robin added, nodding to Sumia.

“That was one topic that didn’t come up today,” the prince sighed. “We’ll have to bring it up next time, I suppose.”

“It might be for the best that we broach these changes slowly,” the tactician murmured, brushing a few stray crumbs off his coat before helping the pegasus knight to clear out what little remained of their lunch. “They were angry enough when you brought me in.”

“It was worth it for the looks on their faces,” Chrom grinned. 

“For you, maybe,” Robin sighed. “But we have our work cut out for us.”

“We can do it, though,” Sumia insisted. “I know we can, if we work together.”

The tactician smiled, rising to his feet as the prince helped his wife up. Her confidence in the endeavor was quite heartening…and coupled with Chrom’s backing, Robin dared to imagine that they might see success, however gradually it might come. 

“So do you need help finding anything in the library for your list?” the pegasus knight asked as they made their way back into the palace. “There’s no training today, so I’d be happy to look with you, if you need another pair of eyes.”

“I’d be grateful for the assistance,” the tactician smiled, crossing toward the stairs. “It may be better organized now, but it’s still a daunting task finding precise works or topics--”

“Milord!!”

They all stopped at the sudden cry, turning to watch as Maribelle bustled toward them and offered a quick, polite curtsy to the prince and his wife. “Oh, thank the gods I’ve found you, I’ve been searching _everywhere!”_

“Is something the matter?” Chrom asked. “Did something happen to Lissa?”

“Beg pardon?” The duchess’ brow furrowed slightly in confusion at the remark. “When I last saw her, Lissa was fine, if completely unaware of your whereabouts -- Milord, the court is in an absolute _uproar,_ what in Naga’s name _happened_ in the council this morning?”

He feared he would never grow accustomed to how rapidly gossip spread in the palace. 

“Robin and I proposed rounding out the council with some new non-noble members,” the prince replied easily. 

“And?”

Chrom looked helplessly at the tactician, who shrugged in return. “That was the only new item brought up…”

“Oh, dear me…you left on that, didn’t you?” 

“Actually, we brought it up at the start--”

“That’s not what I’m referring to,” the noblewoman huffed. “Milord, I…well, if I may be frank, the nobility have enjoyed a great deal of preferential treatment from House Ylisse over the years. While I would never think to disapprove of your proposal, the court is in a panic over this apparent loss of favor.”

“Let them panic,” the prince stated, his voice firm. “The halidom needs to serve _everyone._ Not only them.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Maribelle nodded. “But you must understand that many houses have accumulated significant wealth and resources. If they feel their power is threatened…it is a considerable risk to you, milord.”

Robin felt a sickening weight settle in the pit of his stomach. Had he put Chrom’s life in danger with this plan?

The meaning in her careful words had not been lost on the prince, either; the tactician watched his fingers clench into tight fists at his sides. “What am I supposed to do, then? Back off and let them have full run of the council again?”

“Oh, good _heavens,_ no,” the duchess tutted, brushing away Chrom’s frustration with a flick of her wrist. “You simply need to reassure them that they’re not at risk of losing favor...whether that happens to be true or not. A grand gesture for their benefit should be more than sufficient.”

The prince turned a questioning look to first his wife, then Robin. “What…kind of gesture are you thinking?”

“Oh, I’m _so_ pleased you inquired, milord,” Maribelle beamed, clapping her gloved hands together cheerfully. “I believe a ball would prove _most_ reassuring -- feasting, dancing, finery…”

“How will a party calm the nobility?” the tactician asked. 

“Oh, not just _any_ party,” the noblewoman scoffed. “Just think of it: a grand festival in Ylisstol, where anyone in the halidom is welcome to join in the event now that the war is ended, our prince is happily wedded, and things have well and truly settled…but at the palace, there is an _exclusive_ celebration, open only to the grand and storied noble houses, where they can partake of lavish delicacies and speak personally with the members of House Ylisse itself. Is there any greater proof of favor than in _personally_ entertaining your _dearest_ allies?”

Chrom shook his head. “That seems a bit excessive--”

“It’s brilliant,” Robin breathed, staring at the duchess’ sharp smile with open wonder. 

“Wait, really?”

“Don’t you see?” the tactician asked. “It’s incredibly elegant. With one public display, you reassure every noble family that they still hold favor with House Ylisse -- and you gather them all in one place to test their convictions and their loyalties.” 

“I see your new advisor has as keen a mind for politics as battlefield tactics,” Maribelle noted, gesturing pointedly at him to straighten his posture (which he did, after another moment lost in thought, earning him an approving nod). 

“I’m honored,” Robin smiled, offering a polite bow. 

“…so how do we go about planning this...ball?” the prince asked. 

“Oh, you needn’t worry about a thing -- just leave everything to me,” the noblewoman replied airily, offering a low curtsy. “I’ll draw up plans for your review and have them delivered within the week.”

“Really? I…thank you, Maribelle.”

“Think nothing of it, milord,” she insisted, turning on her heel and retreating across the grand foyer.

“What just happened?” Sumia whispered. 

Chrom shrugged in response as the tactician turned toward them, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a faint grin. “We’ve been offered a rare opportunity,” he replied. “And one that we should all take full advantage of.”

“…well, I guess that means we’re having a party,” the prince chuckled. “Which means we have a lot of work to do.”

\-----

As promised, Maribelle delivered a neatly drafted plan for the ball within days of her proposal, complete with menu, décor, timeframe, and budget. Much to Robin’s surprise, she even took into account a rough cost for the celebrations in the city proper. It was still more gold than he could quite fathom, but the sum that made the tactician cringe gave Chrom no more than a moment’s pause: he simply glanced through the list and nodded before handing it off to Frederick.

Things progressed rapidly from there. Though the festival was slated for late May and therefore several weeks out, the whole castle bustled with activity every time Robin stepped out of the archive: floors scrubbed of dust and dirt, tapestries and rugs taken out to beat clean, decorative arms polished to a brilliant shine, ornaments and heirlooms dusted, rooms opened to air, mattresses turned, linens changed -- it was a dizzying rush that the tactician did his best to avoid. 

So he kept himself mostly confined to the library, with the exception of his brief forays back to the garrison for meals and sleep, perusing dozens of diplomatic treatises on foreign governments. After several days of thought and revision, he had drafted an exhaustive list of possible criteria for the council, complete with notations on rationale and negotiability…and upon reviewing his work the next morning, it seemed at least a satisfactory start; rolling the parchment tight and tucking it under his arm, Robin made his way through the busy halls to the royal suite, hoping it was still early enough in the day that Chrom and Sumia might be in. 

His knock, thankfully, was greeted by both of their voices, and a smile crept unbidden to his face as he opened the door. “I was hoping I might find you here -- I think the first draft is…?”

He paused, looking around the room in surprise. All the furniture -- tables, chairs, couches, vases, ornaments, _everything_ \-- had been pushed against the walls. It seemed much bigger with the space clear…and it drew his full attention in short order to the prince and his wife as they danced their way around the room, Sumia’s steps tentative as Chrom guided her along through the motions. 

“And back…two…three…turn…two…thr--”

“Ah! Sorry!”

“It’s fine,” the prince laughed, catching his wife as she stumbled. “It takes some practice. You’ll get it.”

Sumia smiled, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as she glanced toward the door -- and the tactician watched her face light up when she saw their guest. “Ah! Good morning, Robin!”

“I-I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” the tactician said, feeling suddenly very sheepish. 

“Not at all,” Chrom chuckled. “Just some dancing lessons. Though I’m out of practice, so who knows how well this will go.”

“I think you’re a fine teacher,” the pegasus knight protested. “And I appreciate that you don’t yell at me for getting things wrong. Or stepping on your toes,” she added bashfully. 

“I got my fill of that when I was learning.” Chrom rolled his eyes, twirling Sumia once before drawing her close again and starting in on the steps. “So what brings you by so early?”

“O-oh, I--”

“Are you coming to the ball?” Sumia asked. 

“I’m not technically a noble--”

“The Shepherds are all invited,” her husband pointed out. “And you’re still technically a Shepherd. And my advisor.”

“And the archivist,” Robin groaned. Maribelle had warned him that his new position came with courtly responsibilities -- gods, he’d hoped that he wouldn’t need to put any of her lessons into practice outside of their teatimes with Lissa…

“So are you coming?” the pegasus knight pressed. 

“Do I really have a choice?” the tactician sighed. 

“Technically, you do,” the prince replied. “We wouldn’t force you to come. But we’d like it if you did.”

“…I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” Robin relented. And odds were good that the duchess would insist on his attendance, even if the prince did not. 

“Oh, I’m so glad!” Sumia smiled. “Will you be dancing, too?”

“I don’t know the first thing about dancing.”

“There’s still time -- we could even learn together!” she offered. “What do you think?”

…well, learning with her under Chrom’s direction would be infinitely preferable to learning from Maribelle. “That would be nice--”

“Great!!” Spinning away from her husband, the pegasus knight set aside the tactician’s parchment and pulled him further into the room…but rather than taking his hands, she pushed him at the prince before sitting in one of the chairs by the wall. “I could use a break. Chrom can show you the basics.”

Robin felt his face begin to heat. “This isn’t fair--”

“I don’t see a problem with it,” the captain chuckled, taking the tactician’s hands. “Just follow my lead and you’ll be fine.”

Robin’s fingers settled hesitantly on the prince’s shoulder, mimicking the stance he’d seen Sumia take. “Is that really necessary?” he mumbled as Chrom’s hand settled just above his hip. 

“This is how it’s done,” the captain replied; if the tactician hadn’t already been flushed from the closeness, that smile would have turned his face blistering red. _Gods,_ that man could be charming. “It’s not a difficult dance, it just takes some getting used to. Now, when I step forward, you step back. Nice and easy: back…” As Chrom advanced, Robin retreated on instinct, though he made little progress with the prince’s hand on his waist and warm fingers folded around his own. He wasn’t sure he could manage this. “Easy,” Chrom chuckled. “Now, to the side…and together.” As the prince sidestepped, the tactician followed, his attention fixed on the floor to watch their movements (and to keep from faltering in the face of that grin he could hear in the captain’s every word). “There. That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”

“So you say,” Robin muttered. 

“Come on, let’s try it again,” Chrom laughed. “Back…two…three…back…two…three…” 

The even rhythm of his words carried them around the room, the steps becoming smoother with each repetition. “You’ve really got a knack for this. Are you sure you haven’t danced before?” the prince asked. 

“Quite,” the tactician replied softly, turning slightly under the guidance of the captain’s hand.

“You could have fooled me.”

“Show him the next part!” Sumia called, startling Robin out of his rhythm (and drawing a warm peal of laughter from her husband, which only made him redden further). 

“What next part?” he demanded, half-turning toward the pegasus knight as he tried to find his pace again. 

“Hold on tight,” Chrom breathed against his ear. 

“Wait, what--”

The tactician had an instant to process the fact that the prince’s arm had coiled around his back. 

And then his feet left the ground as Chrom lifted him up. 

Robin yelped in alarm, his arm wrapping around the captain’s shoulders as they spun in a tight half-circle. Even as his boots touched the floor, he clung tight to the prince’s shoulders, his cheeks burning as their foreheads touched. _“Chrom, you’re being an ass,”_ he hissed. 

“I’m sorry,” the captain murmured, no more than a hint of remorse in his voice. “But it is part of the dance.”

“You could have warned me,” the tactician grumbled, pulling away and trying to scrub the color from his face without success.

“I thought it might be a nice surprise. I didn’t mean to upset you…I won’t do it again. I promise,” Chrom added, sounding significantly more contrite. 

“It was my fault for suggesting it,” Sumia murmured, stepping up beside them. “I’m sorry, Robin, I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable, really…”

The tactician sighed, ruffling his pale hair. “I just…need a bit more notice before you do things like that. Please.”

“Alright,” the prince nodded. 

“Okay,” his wife echoed. “Do you want to sit and watch for a while?”

“I should get back to the archives--”

“Don’t go,” the pegasus knight pleaded. He shied instinctively away from her touch on his shoulder; her startled look lanced a pang of guilt through his chest as he tried unsuccessfully to settle his frayed nerves. “What’s wrong?”

“…I don’t like being taken off-guard,” Robin mumbled, his hands fisting in his sleeves. Gods, he had hoped this would get easier with the war ended, that the anxieties would quiet, and yet here he was again feeling off-kilter with panic pounding in his heartbeat--

“Robin?”

Glancing up, he watched as Sumia opened her arms to him. After a moment’s thought, he nodded…and she embraced him, stretching up on tiptoe as he lowered his head to her shoulder. “It’s okay,” she murmured. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Maybe we could all use a break,” Chrom offered. “You brought something to look over, didn’t you?”

“…yes,” the tactician agreed as the pegasus knight guided him over to a couch along the wall, settling close beside him and handing the rolled parchment to him. “I’ve finished the first draft of criteria for the council, and I was hoping to get your thoughts.”

“Of course,” the prince murmured, sitting by Robin’s other side and slipping an arm around the tactician’s shoulders. “Go right ahead.”

Unfurling the list, Robin felt a faint smile twitch at his lips as both Chrom and Sumia leaned in close to read his tight script. The disquieting unease had yet to abate, and he rather doubted it would for some time yet…but the warmth of their quiet company was pleasant, enough to push it briefly aside.

\-----

In the past fortnight, Robin had managed to get almost nothing done. Between the audiences with Chrom and Sumia (that dealt much less with politics than with dancing) and Maribelle’s renewed fervor when it came to their lessons, the tactician had barely found time to sleep, let alone make progress on any of his other duties. He would be glad when this nonsense was over and done with.

Though as he and the pegasus knight moved easily around the empty parlour, he imagined he might miss this. 

“Do you think we’ll be ready in time?” she asked, turning neatly under his arm and into the next steps. 

“I think you’re about ready now,” Chrom replied as he continued to clap out their rhythm. They had certainly come far from the slow, tentative pace of their first attempts. “Try a lift.”

Slipping his arm around her waist, Robin picked Sumia up and spun her in a neat half-circle, her bright laughter drawing a soft smile across his face. “You know we’ll have to be careful,” he murmured, measuring his stride to hers as they resumed their steps. 

“Well of course!” she agreed. “It’s one thing dancing with you and Chrom, but…I really hope I don’t trip up out there.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?” she asked, looking curiously up at him. He glanced away, shyly, feeling the warmth rising in his cheeks again. 

“W-well, there will be a great deal of scrutiny during the ball. For you and Chrom, as much as myself. It’s a test of everyone in attendance: while they are watching us for any misstep, any impropriety, any hint of weakness, we will be looking for their loyalties and motives, finding ways to turn them to our side or block dangerous ambitions. Or possibly ways to play them against one another, as needed. But we will need to be very cautious with our behavior: you and Chrom are free to be dote on one another, but anything involving me will need to be kept strictly formal. And with the dancing…”

“No looks, right?” the prince offered, pacing alongside them. “From what I remember, you’re supposed to look whichever way you’re turning instead of at your partner.”

“That’s a shame,” Sumia sighed. “I guess that just means I’ll have to look at you more now, while I have a chance.”

The tactician completely missed his next step, his cheeks burning as he stumbled into the pegasus knight; but she only laughed, something warm and bright, wrapping her arms around him in a gentle embrace while her husband fought a losing battle to hide his grin. “I’m beginning to think you say things like that on purpose,” he mumbled. 

“No, but Chrom does,” she confided. 

That sounded right. 

Pulling himself up again, Robin glanced at the long streaks of light spread across the floor and offered a smile to both the prince and his wife. “I think that may be all I have time for -- I have an engagement with Maribelle this afternoon and she loathes tardiness like very little else.”

“What does she need with you?” the captain asked. 

“I pray it’s just teatime with Lissa, but considering how adamant she was, I fear she has something planned. Likely more preparations for this event of hers, but…”

“Will you be back later?” Sumia asked. “You could always join us for supper.”

“I think that would be the height of impropriety,” the tactician chuckled. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Chrom sighed, patting Robin’s shoulder. “Good luck with Maribelle.”

“I fear I’ll need it.” But with a final wave, the tactician collected his books from the stand behind the door and made his way out into the halls, navigating through the quiet corridors with the least amount activity, until he arrived at the library. Peering inside, he was relieved to find that the noblewoman had not arrived before him; setting his texts on the edge of his desk, he took a moment to straighten his coat and remind himself of the proper posture for a nobleman--

The door crashed open, sending his thoughts into a chaotic roil as he snatched for the tome in his coat. But as he turned toward the entry, a wave of relief washed over him: not an enemy, but Lissa, bouncing across the room to meet him. “ _Gods,_ Lissa, you really need to learn to knock--”

“No time for that!” she giggled. “Come on, come on! We’ve gotta meet Maribelle!”

“For tea?” he ventured.

“Nope!” Snaring his arm, the princess dragged him out into the halls and down the nearest flight of stairs…but rather than turn into the sitting room that the duchess favored for their afternoon meetings, Lissa pulled him further on, through a wing of the castle he’d only rarely visited, until they finally arrived at what he could only assume would be the ballroom for the night of the celebration: pillars of gleaming white stone bearing the blue and green banners of Ylisse held the vaulted ceiling aloft, while the afternoon sunlight spilling through the skylight’s stained glass painted a dazzling image of the halidom’s divine dragon across the polished floor. 

“Nice, huh?” the princess beamed. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a party, so they had to do a _lot_ of cleaning up in here. Maribelle’s been doing an inspection before the big night -- I’m so excited, aren’t you?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Robin replied, following obediently as Lissa led him down to where the duchess stood, marking items off on a checklist longer than the tactician’s coat. Glancing up at the sound of footsteps, she put on a pleasant smile, offering a slight curtsy that Robin echoed with a polite bow. “Good afternoon, milady.”

“Good afternoon, sir,” she replied. “I’m so pleased you were able to make it -- I really would have preferred to begin this instruction sooner rather than later, but with all of the preparations I simply haven’t had the time.”

“Instruction?” Glancing at Lissa, his brows rose as the princess clapped her hands over her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle her giggles. “What manner of instruction, if I may ask?”

“Of course -- as you will be attending the ball, you will be expected to take part in the festivities, which includes dancing. And considering your…well, _prior_ station, I expect that you will require some lessons. Lissa will be your partner, and we’ll begin with a simple waltz: now, you will take the lady’s hand in yours, and place the other on her back below her shoulder.”

A smile twitched across the tactician’s face. So Chrom hadn’t been entirely truthful, after all. Though, to be fair, the prince had admitted that he was out of practice, so perhaps it was an honest mistake (though Robin rather doubted it, knowing Chrom). Even still, he turned agreeably to Lissa, offering a low bow before holding his hand out to her; she curtsied before accepting, her palm resting as high on his arm as she could manage. “Wow, you’re really tall,” she marveled. 

“He slouches terribly,” Maribelle huffed. “Now, remember your posture, both of you. Robin, you will be stepping forward; Lissa, you will step back; then both of you will move to the side and bring your feet together. Lively, now: and one, two, three, one, two, three…”

This was all very familiar now. Rather more brisk than his pace with Sumia, but the steps were starting to become second nature: measuring his stride to Lissa’s proved somewhat more challenging, but after the first few steps they began to move with ease, turning their way through the colored lights painting the ballroom floor. 

“You can dance?” the princess laughed as she turned under his arm. 

“It’s a recently acquired skill,” he agreed. 

“Did your _boyfriend_ teach you?” she giggled. 

_“Boyfriend!?”_

The tactician sighed, chancing a glance toward the duchess and once more cursing that damnable oath he’d made. “Yes.”

“Did you manage to work things out?” Lissa asked as Maribelle continued to sputter in shock. 

“Arrangements have been made,” he conceded. 

“I’m really glad. I like it a lot better when you’re happy,” she smiled. Leaning close, he slipped an arm around her and lifted her high off the ground, drawing a shout of laughter from the princess before her boots lit back on the floor.

“What was _that!?”_ the duchess demanded. 

“A lift?” Robin replied. 

“No no no, your form is _all_ wrong -- you do not _stoop_ to lift a lady, you must _bow. Again.”_

The tactician fought down the temptation to roll his eyes. But even still, as Lissa beamed and stretched up on her toes, he complied. No, this likely would not be the most relaxing afternoon…but, he supposed, he could bear that.

\-----

Maribelle’s dancing lesson did, in fact, come in quite handy: with everything he picked up from the duchess’ instruction, Robin was able to correct several subtle issues in their positions and poise. He only hoped it would be enough to pass the inspection of the nobility.

The tactician had thought the halls were busy while preparations were made for the celebrations; yet the day of the event proper seemed nothing short of chaotic as the finishing touches were completed on the décor and final inspections made of every space before the arrival of the first guests. Even from his refuge in the archives, he swore he could hear the swell of music from the distant ballroom. 

He was not looking forward to the night’s festivities. 

But Maribelle had made it abundantly clear that his presence was not encouraged, but _required._ The dancing lessons alone had proven that point. 

As the shadows began to lengthen, Robin sighed, pushing his chair away from the desk. He had taken some time in the early hours before dawn to bathe and launder his clothes, washing his hair, scrubbing his skin pink, and mending the signs of wear in his shirt and trousers before breakfast. He prayed that it would be enough to satisfy the noblewoman when their paths next crossed…which, unfortunately, would likely be soon. Rising from his seat, he carefully straightened his garments, picking at few stray threads on his shirt before smoothing the fabric and fussing with the clasp of his coat. 

He didn’t feel ready for this. 

And as though to make his trepidation worse, a knock sounded at the door to the archive, followed immediately by the entrance of the Duchess of Themis herself. She had, unsurprisingly, chosen significantly different attire for the event, replacing her blouse and breeches with a richly dyed pink gown, scattered with small flashing stones and neat ribbons tied into perfect bows. 

“I thought I might find you here,” she huffed. “I _do_ hope you’re setting off to change.”

The tactician looked down at his clothes again. Aside from the few bothersome frays in his shirt and the well-worn look of all his garments, he could find no obvious fault with them. “Actually, I was about to make my way down to join the celebration.”

“Not wearing _that,”_ she insisted, gesturing to the whole of his outfit. 

“It’s all I have,” he shrugged. 

“You _must_ be joking.” The noblewoman’s brow furrowed slightly as he shook his head. “ _Surely_ you have _ample_ funds to supplement your wardrobe, now that the campaign is ended.”

Robin thought briefly of the enormous sack of coin Chrom had presented to him some time ago, now divided into a number of smaller pouches and tucked away in several locations throughout the archive and garrison, not to mention what he kept in the pockets of his coat. “Even if I did, what’s wrong with these? They’re comfortable and functional. And clean.”

“Any proper nobleman would be _horrified_ to appear in public in such a state,” she balked. 

“In case you’ve forgotten, I am ‘noble’ only by virtue of Chrom’s favor,” he remarked flatly. 

“Oh, pish-tosh,” Maribelle tutted. “You’re more a gentleman than much of the court. It seems only fitting that you look as fine as your demeanor.”

The tactician paused, struggling to process the duchess’ words. “Did -- did you just compliment me?”

“Well, you _have_ made fine progress in your lessons, though your posture is still frequently lacking.” She cast a pointed look at him, and he straightened self-consciously as his surprise waned. Of course she’d only been referring to her instruction--

“But I suppose you would not have made such progress if you lacked noble mettle,” she smiled. 

Taken aback, Robin struggled to find any words for his pleasant shock. “I. Thank you, Maribelle,” he managed after a moment, offering a polite bow. “I’m honored by your praise.”

“I know you are,” she replied easily. “And your deference is quite befitting of your station. You may fit in yet. Come along, now, we’ve wasted _quite_ enough time, and you still need to be dressed.”

“We just discussed--”

“Oh, I had been _hoping_ that you would make arrangements for new attire, but I can’t say that I’m terribly surprised to find that you didn’t. Which is why I went to the liberty of procuring several items for you. You’re quite welcome,” she added, chivvying him out of the archive and into the halls. “Come along, now, step lively.”

“I-I couldn’t possibly impose--”

“It’s hardly an imposition,” she insisted, shepherding him along through increasingly unfamiliar halls. “Consider it a gift. Ah, here we are.”

She pushed open a door at seeming random, shooing him inside. Much to his surprise, it was not empty: Lissa bounced off the couch in a gold-trimmed ivory dress scattered with countless pearls while the noblewoman bustled off to the low table where a broad array of clothes lay in neat piles: shirts, doublets, vests, breeches, leggings, belts, shoes, cravats, feathered caps, all in rich reds and violets; many of the sleeved articles were edged with frankly ludicrous amounts of lace, while several of the items with eyelets were matched with satin ribbons for lacing. 

It all looked frighteningly lavish and murderously expensive. 

“I couldn’t afford anything here,” he protested, pulling his coat tighter around him as the princess began to tug at his sleeve. The whole of his campaign pay might afford him one jacket, and then only if it were second-hand. Possibly third. 

“As I said, it’s a gift,” Maribelle mused, browsing through the items and picking an undyed shirt and dark trousers. “Start with these. Hurry, now, we _cannot_ be late.”

Robin took them hesitantly, looking around the elegantly appointed room for any refuge; Lissa giggled, but the duchess nodded approvingly at his modesty, pointing to a changing screen set well away from the windows. Slipping out of sight, the tactician breathed a steadying sigh, said his prayers, and shed his coat and well-worn clothes before donning the noblewoman’s offerings. 

…or trying to, at least. The shirt was far tighter than he preferred, but he had never owned a garment that fit him so well: all of his normal garb was loose at best, oversized at worst. And the linen weave was finer than anything he’d ever laid a hand on before, let alone worn. The pants, meanwhile, were entirely too tight to slip into. Maribelle muttered something he wasn’t quite able to catch at that news (though Lissa’s spontaneous fit of giggles made him wonder if the duchess hadn’t sworn an oath) before hanging another pair on the top edge of the screen. Those, thankfully, were more forgiving in every sense -- tighter than his normal attire, but loose enough for his comfort. 

Creeping out from his hiding place, Robin tried not to cower as Maribelle inspected him with the attention of a predatory cat sizing up her next meal. The princess, at least, seemed pleased regardless, clapping enthusiastically and making the silver ornaments dangling from her headdress sparkle and chime.

“I suppose it will suffice,” the noblewoman declared. “I really _must_ refer you to a tailor, guesswork and estimates are no substitute for fine bespoke clothing.”

Things progressed rapidly from there as Lissa and Maribelle bandied over various articles in rich colors and fine fabrics, pushing several onto him to try (and occasionally crying out in horror or hilarity, though he wasn’t sure which was worse), until he found himself coaxed into a lace-choked crimson doublet and a beribboned black and violet jerkin, the velvet brocade picked through with gold thread. The duchess’ finishing touches included a pair of short leather boots with bright clasps; a handsome belt with delicate etchings in the buckle; and to his horror, a voluminous ascot affixed at his throat with a large garnet pin set in gold. 

“How did I let you convince me to take part in this?” the tactician asked, collapsing on the sofa next to the princess as she began to turn pink from the strain of suppressing laughter. 

“You’re taking part in a formal occasion,” the noblewoman replied, running a stiff brush through his hair (and swatting at him as he tried to squirm away). “You simply _must_ look the part.”

“Besides, don’t you want to look nice for your _boyfriend?”_ Lissa giggled. 

“Darling, remember, we discussed this,” Maribelle chided. “Robin’s private affairs are to remain private.”

“We can’t even talk about it with _him?”_ the princess protested. 

“Not in public,” the duchess replied. 

“I’m rather hoping no one recognizes me at all,” the tactician grumbled, reaching up to run a hand through his hair and receiving a sharp rap on the knuckles courtesy of the noblewoman’s brush. “I feel like a buffoon.”

“You look every bit a nobleman of standing,” Maribelle corrected.

“I look like a fop.”

Lissa finally lost control of her laughter, howling and clutching her sides as her heels drummed on the floor. The duchess paid no attention to the outburst, moving around the couch to evaluate her work from a new angle before, with a final nod of approval, producing a small looking glass from a cleverly concealed pocket in her ruffled skirts. “Really, now, you look quite fine. Almost _handsome,_ even,” she added, turning the mirror toward him to reveal his neatly coiffed hair.

“Please tell me I won’t need to stay long,” Robin pleaded, reaching instinctively up to touch his forehead only to have the noblewoman swat him again.

“You will stay for as long as the prince does, as is customary,” she chided. “To do otherwise would be a _grave_ faux-pas. Now, then, off with the gloves--”

“The gloves stay.”

“They clash _atrociously--”_

_“The gloves stay.”_

The princess had gone quiet, fidgeting with her skirts as the tactician met Maribelle’s eye steadily. His fingers shook as he gripped his Eyes, fighting down the roil of panic constricting his chest--

“Didn’t you bring a pair of formal gloves?”

Lissa looked pleadingly between them, reaching out to gently pat Robin’s hand. The duchess finally sighed, moving around the settee as the tactician tried to still his tremors. “It’s okay,” the princess reassured him. “You’ll look really good out there, all dressed up. And I bet your boyfriend will be really impressed, too! Are you gonna introduce me?”

Robin shook his head. “No.”

“Awww, come on!” Lissa whined. “Why not!?”

“Because Maribelle’s right: it should stay private.”

“Does that mean you’re not gonna dance with him?”

“Certainly not,” the tactician muttered.

“Are you at least gonna _talk_ to him?”

“…possibly,” he conceded, lifting his head as the duchess returned and held a pair of dark gloves out to him, each embroidered with a red-breasted bird perched on a flowering branch. “Lissa chose them,” she huffed. “They were meant to be a surprise as the final complement to your outfit, but that seems a moot point now.”

“Do you like them?” the princess asked. “They made me think of you, with the robins and all, so…”

Smiling softly, the tactician took them in hand. “They’re lovely. Thank you, Lissa.”

She beamed as he stood and moved again behind the changing screen, setting aside his worn leather gloves and running his fingers gently over the violet mark on the back of his hand before donning Lissa’s’ gift. They were much lighter-weight than his usual fare, and far softer…and much to his surprise, they fit him perfectly; either he was very lucky, or the princess remembered far more from that long-ago market trip than he did. 

Taking his coat in hand, Robin moved back into view, drawing it up over his shoulders--

_“Absolutely not!!”_

The tactician started as Maribelle swirled across the room in a storm of pink ruffles and satin ribbons, snatching his robe away before he could pull it on. “Give it back!” he demanded, snatching for it even as the noblewoman held it out of reach. 

“Your attire is _perfectly_ suited to this occasion. You will _not_ present yourself to the court in _this,_ ” she snapped, turning on her heel and marching across the room with Robin in pursuit. 

“I need it,” he insisted. 

“Why?” 

“I…it’s important. It’s mine,” he pleaded. It had kept him safe for years: his earliest memories were of his mother wrapping it around him and promising that it would protect him from danger, from enemies, from monsters, from nightmares, from anything he might fear. It was his protection, his _armor_ \-- and given what awaited him…a crushing sense of vulnerability threatened to choke him. “Please.”

“No.”

Folding the garment over the back of the couch, the duchess took firm hold of the tactician’s arm and pulled him out of the room; Lissa joined them, linking her arm with his in what seemed an apologetic attempt at reassurance. And as Maribelle rattled off an exhaustive list of everything he needed to remember for the evening’s festivities, Robin cast one final glance over his shoulder, praying that he would not have need of the armor he’d been forced to leave behind.

\-----

Much to his surprise, the ballroom was still mostly empty when they arrived. Servants bustled about along the edges of the room, tending to the sconces that would be lit once the festivities began in earnest, but the main floor remained entirely empty…with the exception of the royal couple standing in the painted glow of the skylight at the center of the room, deep in conversation with Frederick. As Lissa wandered off to examine the flower garlands wrapped around the pillars and Maribelle moved to engage the great knight in discussing the final minute details of the evening’s preparations, the tactician made his way toward Chrom and Sumia, trying not to fuss overmuch with his lacy cuffs as he walked. Gods, he missed his coat.

The prince and his wife looked resplendent, and all the more stunning the closer he came. Sumia’s silver hair had been carefully gathered and secured atop her head, woven through with lilacs, and ornamented with pearls and silver butterflies; her rich lavender gown had been painstakingly embroidered with flowers and pegasi in silver thread, each one accented with bright gemstones and still more seed pearls. In spite of his rather evident discomfort, the prince looked quite dashing in his midnight and slate blue finery (though much to Robin’s amusement, his shirt still only bore one slashed sleeve, leaving his brand on prominent display), his pale hose and navy breeches neatly matching the cobalt and silver brocade of his jerkin. 

“I think I’m going to be the most uncomfortable person here,” he heard Chrom mutter as he reached up to fuss with the gold and lapis diadem on his brow. 

“I would beg to differ,” the tactician grumbled, stepping up beside them.

The captain and the pegasus knight both started, turning toward Robin with sheepish looks. “Please excuse me, I didn’t mean…?”

Chrom’s brow furrowed, and the tactician knew instantly that they were both trying to place him. Resisting the urge to bury his face in his hands, Robin continued to sincerely regret whatever twisted circumstances had landed him in Maribelle’s apparent favor (even if all of this felt more like an elaborate form of revenge).

Sumia’s eyes widened slightly as she leaned closer. “… … … Robin!?”

Of course she would be the one who realized. Trying to remember his manners, the tactician pulled himself up to his full height and offered a low, sweeping bow, painfully aware of how flushed his face felt. “Good evening, milord and milady. It is a great honor to be invited and to enjoy your company here.”

They were both staring as he straightened, and it took every ounce of self-control he could muster not to fuss with his ascot. “…if you’re going to laugh, please get it over with,” Robin mumbled. “Lissa’s been having fits the whole way here.”

A broad smile broke across the prince’s face. “I didn’t recognize you -- what in Naga’s name are you even wearing?” he chuckled, walking around the tactician to take in the whole of his new attire. 

“Something Maribelle put together,” Robin muttered, fighting to maintain some semblance of poise. 

“I shouldn’t be surprised. Gods, this is…quite a change.” Chrom’s grin only made the tactician’s composure falter further; desperate for any respite, he turned a pleading glance toward Sumia, who had gone very faintly pink as she looked between Robin and her husband. 

“Are…are you taller than Chrom?”

“What?” They looked at one another in surprise, the tactician shrinking slightly even as the prince straightened. “No, stand up, I’m curious.” Hesitantly correcting his posture, Robin held very still as the captain stepped closer, trying very hard not to think about his nearness or his warmth or the slight brush of gloved fingers against his forehead…

“You’re right.” Chrom sounded easily as amazed as Sumia as he stepped back, his smile only growing wider as the tactician fought to curtail his blush. “Gods, this night is turning out to be full of surprises.”

“Hopefully that will be the end of them,” Robin mumbled, smoothing his brocade fretfully. “I already have too much to remember if I want to survive the night, I don’t need any more shocks to jar my senses. You both look wonderful, by the bye.”

The pegasus knight beamed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You look very handsome, yourself,” she insisted. “It’s just so strange to see you without your coat! I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen you without it.”

“Maribelle wouldn’t let me,” he sighed. “And not for lack of trying, on my part.”

“Milord.”

They all looked up as Frederick approached; on closer inspection, the tactician noted that he had foregone his usual heavy armor in favor of a suit of ornamental plate engraved with elaborate patterns. “Is it time?” the prince asked, touching his crown again. 

“Indeed,” the great knight agreed. “Shall I give the order?”

Chrom nodded, and Frederick bowed before turning toward the arch leading from the foyer to the ballroom. “Wish me luck,” he sighed.

“You’ll do great,” Sumia assured him, curling her arm around his; the prince stood just a bit taller at that reassurance, his smile softening as he lay his free hand over hers.

“She’s right,” Robin agreed. “But good luck, even still.” As Lissa bounced over to join her brother in the center of the room, the tactician moved to join Maribelle in the shadows beyond the pillars; she linked her arm delicately with his, casting a sidelong glance at him that made him stand just a bit taller. 

“You may yet fit in,” she decided. 

“High praise,” he murmured as the doors opened. In short order, a flood of lavishly dressed men and women, young and old, spilled into the room, crowding and jostling one another to catch a glimpse of the royal family. Whatever words Chrom might have spoken to them were lost over the whispers of the nearest nobles. But, knowing the prince, it had likely been inspiring. And quite charming. 

As the people around them began to move, the duchess tugged him along with the rest of the procession through the doorway on the far side of the room that led into the great hall. While Chrom, Sumia, and Lissa sat with the standing council members at the high table, Maribelle led Robin to one of the lower benches, conversing at length with the nearest men and women over the course of the sumptuous feast…and minding the tactician’s manners when he forgot himself -- which happened with some frequency; the minute portions noble manner dictated were entirely at odds with his instinctive need to take every available opportunity to eat his fill. His etiquette was not improved by his lacking attention for the food on his plate: he tasted very little of what he ate, turning the bulk of his concentration toward the conversation around him and filing away every name, every choice of words, every detail and whisper and glance.

It made him miss his coat all the more, with the parchment and quills he’d tucked away in its many pockets. A crowd might be easy to read, but it was nearly impossible to remember with any clarity. 

Still, he made his best attempt. And as the prince and his wife rose from their seats, the rest of the assembly followed suit, filing back into the ballroom now illuminated by glowing torches. The light reflecting off the pale stonework gave every illusion of daylight; were it not for the missing image of Naga painted on the floor by the stained glass skylight, he would have believed the hour far earlier than he knew it to be. 

And it was there, at last, that Maribelle left him to tend to other important matters. Breathing a heavy sigh of relief, Robin slipped into the quietest corner he could find…which happened to be by a long table piled high with sweet-looking morsels to keep the dancers’ energy high through what would likely be a very long night. 

He was not surprised to find a familiar face there, casually snatching tarts and candied fruit from the platters and tucking them into various pockets and pouches. “Should I assume that I’ll have a long report tomorrow?” he asked, leaning against the edge of the table. 

“Yeah, yeah, Bubbles,” the thief grumbled, glancing over at him--

And promptly dove under the table and out of sight. 

The tactician blinked. “…Gaius?” No response. “Gaius. It’s me.”

“Prove it.”

Robin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and resisting the urge to run a hand through his hair. “You never use the archive door and you usually forget to close the window after you. I gave you three crowberry tarts and a purse of Lissa’s sugar candies last week for the gossip you brought from the kitchens. You desperately need to invest in waterproof satchels after that incident last month.”

The thief peeked out from under the tablecloth, looking the tactician up and down as a wicked grin split his face. “What happened to _you?”_ he asked, dusting himself off and snatching up a cream-covered confection to munch on. 

“Maribelle,” Robin sighed. 

“Twinkles must have it in for ya.”

“I can’t argue.”

“You enjoyin’ yourself?”

“’Enjoy’ is a rather strong word,” the tactician muttered, glancing around the crowded ballroom. “It’s informative.” And though he hesitated to admit it, he likely had the duchess to thank for that: he would have stood out instantly in his usual attire, putting every nearby aristocrat on their guard. He’d heard more than enough over the meal to prove just how effective a change of clothes could be. “Have you heard anything of interest yet?”

“Bubbles, I’ve heard stuff that’ll make your ears burn,” Gaius chuckled. “You’re not a popular guy around here.”

“I’m not paying you for things I already know,” Robin remarked wryly.

“Call that one a freebie, then. …you look like a jester. Didja know that, too?”

“Yes.”

“This is turnin’ out to be a _great_ night. I figured I’d just be skulkin’ around hoardin’ gossip, but here I’ve got a whole table full’a sugar _and_ my own personal entertainment. An’ you said you weren’t a funny guy.”

“I’m not a funny guy.”

“I’m getting’ a good laugh out of it,” the thief snickered through a bite of his treat. 

“You better not be makin’ trouble over here.”

Gaius vanished under the table linen, and a sinking sense of dread settled over the tactician as he glanced toward the voice. Noblewoman or not, he had not expected Sully to come in a dress, and he was not disappointed: much like Frederick, the cavalier wore handsomely wrought armor, cardinal red with silver filigree and what he assumed was her family’s coat of arms proudly etched across the chestplate. She looked just as fierce in this company as she did on the battlefield, her fiery curls as wild as he’d ever seen them and her hands planted firmly on her hips as she glowered at the spot where the thief had disappeared. 

“There’s no trouble,” Robin assured her. 

“Says the guy watchin’ a thief raid the buffet,” she snapped, turning a sharp look on the tactician…and pausing, her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she leaned toward him. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“It’s Bubbles,” Gaius piped up from under the table. 

Sully’s glare darted down to the linen cover, then back to Robin. And then she stalked around him, eyeing him up and down as he silently cursed the thief for instigating this particular nightmare, and Maribelle for setting it all in motion in the first place.

“…what the _fuck_ happened to you?” 

“Maribelle,” he groaned again. 

“For gods’ sakes -- haven’t you got a _shred_ of self-respect, ya ninny? You could’a said _no!_ You look like a damn fool.”

“That’s exactly what I told her.”

“Well, at least you’ve got _some_ sense,” the cavalier grumbled. As the first strains of music floated over the ballroom, she elbowed the tactician in the ribs, grinning sidelong at him as the nobles began to chatter and crowd around the pillars. “Wanna go watch Chrom and Sumia try not to trip over each other?”

He did hope it wouldn’t come to that. But even still, he nodded, following Sully as she pushed her way through the milling aristocrats with Robin in tow. As they arrived at the edge of the main floor, he saw the prince offer a low, courtly bow to his wife, who curtsied deeply in return. The music swelled as they joined hands…and in the next moment they began, turning easily around the ballroom without missing a step. Every twirl, every spin, every lift -- though his eye was nowhere near as discerning as the duchess’ stare, he could find no fault in their performance. 

And not a single stumble, even as they spent the whole of the dance looking on one another. 

As the final strains of music faded and the royal couple turned to their audience, Sully blew an enthusiastic whistle; the tactician’s own applause spurred the crowd to join in until the chamber echoed with it, brightening the flush in Sumia’s already pink cheeks. And when the sound at last began to fade, the musicians struck up a new chord, pairs of nobles hurrying out onto the floor in response to the call of the first open dance. 

_“Here_ you are!”

Robin cringed instinctively at the sharp address before pulling himself together, offering a wan smile to Maribelle as she hurried up beside him. “Were you looking for me?” he asked. 

_“Everywhere!”_ she snapped. “Come along, now, they’re about to begin--”

“Hey, Maribelle.”

The duchess paused, turning a cool look on the cavalier lounging next to the tactician. “Hello, Sully,” she replied curtly. 

“Why the fuck did you stuff him into that mess?” the knight asked.

“Because any _proper_ noble would be _mortified_ to appear at a public event dressed in such rags.”

“So what if they weren’t the height of fashion and hoity-toity frills? At least he didn’t look like a pompous ass.”

“If he’s to make his way in the court and advance his career, he _must_ adhere to the dictates of fashion.”

 _“I_ don’t and I’m doing just fine,” Sully snorted. 

“And yet I can’t help but notice that you’ve dressed for this occasion,” Maribelle replied, hooking Robin’s arm and tugging him toward the other dancers. “Now, come along, we can’t have you running off and making a fool of yourself -- remember, the switch comes after the second twirl, and keep your lifts _tight,_ you wouldn’t want your partner to jostle another dancer…”

As the noblewoman continued to remind him of the many, _many_ fine points of the waltz, the music grew louder, drowning out her voice. He bowed deeply, offering his hand as the duchess rose from her curtsy…and when she touched his arm, the first bright strains of the waltz seemed to pull everyone into the dance. 

After the first few turns, Maribelle fell curiously silent; the tactician glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, and saw only a polite smile on her face. “Either I’m doing terribly and there are too many flaws for you to correct, or I’m exceeding expectations,” he murmured. 

“I must admit, you are doing far better than I expected,” she replied. “You may yet garner a fine reputation here.”

Robin smiled, gazing out across the ballroom as they turned. On the far side of the hall, he glimpsed Chrom dancing with his sister, the both of them grinning as they tried not to laugh; while Sumia had partnered with Ricken, both their faces slightly pink as they fumbled the occasional step. “The opening dance was quite beautiful, I thought,” he remarked. 

“Yes -- imagine my surprise when dear Sumia did not so much as fumble a step through the whole arrangement! She’s come quite far from her early days as a Shepherd, mooning over the captain and tripping over her own boots.”

“She just needed some confidence.”

“Well, I suppose she has that in abundance now -- bow, and lift,” she added as the music built into a trill. Bowing low, the tactician lifted Maribelle into the tight half-turn and set her neatly down again, fighting back a grin as Lissa’s laughter rang out over the ballroom. 

“Someone’s having a good time,” he chuckled. 

“My treasure is the light of any party,” the duchess agreed, unable to hide her own smile. “Well, I do believe that you’re ready to make your own way. Do _try_ to enjoy yourself.”

“I’ll make an attempt,” he assured her as she spun away and he turned to take his next partner. 

So long as he kept his attention trained elsewhere, the dancing was not so bad. He did not know many of the women in attendance, and their conversations were brief and polite as they turned about the floor -- until, of course, he chanced across a familiar face. Lissa giggled over his outfit through most of their round; and when he chanced across Sumia, it proved difficult to keep his smile from edging past politeness into pleasure. Those moments made the affair much more pleasant. As the music began to wind into its final repetition before the dancers changed, Robin sent a countess off with a light bow, turning to take his last partner--

Strong fingers caught his as a hand came to rest on his back. Instinctively falling onto the backstep, the tactician tried not to panic -- had he somehow turned into the wrong line on this last round? Gods, Maribelle would have a _fit--_

“Hey, not bad. Most guys get tripped up when I take the lead.” 

Sully winked at him as he stared down at her, measuring his steps to her stride as she turned them around the floor. “I didn’t know you were joining the dance,” he confessed. 

“Eh, it ain’t usually my thing, but it’s fun to fuck with people sometimes,” she grinned. “You’re not half bad at this, are you?”

“I had a fine teacher,” he agreed. 

“Didn’t know Maribelle was teaching you the ladies’ part.” He did not rise to the jab, focusing instead on his steps as he ducked under her arm. “Damn, have you always been that tall?”

“Maribelle bemoans my posture on a daily basis,” he sighed.

“Huh. So she’s been after you about this shit for a while?”

“Since I took over the archives.”

“Why the fuck’s she been picking on a damn _librarian?”_

“It’s a court position.”

“Really?”

“Apparently.”

“Well, shit.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Bracing himself, the tactician forced down the flare of panic as Sully wrapped an arm around his waist and lifted him easily off the floor -- though it did not stop him from breathing a sigh of relief when his boots touched the ground again. 

“I think my spear weighs more than you.”

“I’m flattered.”

“Do you ever eat?”

“Yes.” When he remembered, at least. 

“Y’know, I don’t usually encourage this kinda thing, but maybe you need to eat a couple more pies before you blow away.”

“I’ll take it into consideration,” he chuckled, bowing to her as the music came to a cheerful close. Grinning, Sully patted his shoulder before jerking her thumb in the direction of the dessert table. 

“Come on, ya ninny, let’s grab a bite,” she insisted, marching ahead. And after a brief pause, Robin followed, his spirits faintly lifted from the start of the evening. The night could still turn -- but at least, for a moment, he really was enjoying himself.

***

Though the party was still going on, it had quieted considerably from the high energy that began the night, and Chrom had finally exhausted his patience with the hollow flattery and petty chatter. Sumia, though she seemed to be enduring well enough, had also started showing signs of wear. And he knew Robin was not enjoying himself in the least.

Though, to be fair: the tactician had danced wonderfully. 

Linking his arm with his wife’s, the prince excused them both from the company of the various noblemen and nobleladies, guiding them out of the grand ballroom and up the winding stairs that led toward more private rooms. As they turned the first corner, Chrom paused to wait…and, sure enough, Robin came skulking along a few paces behind. 

“I had a feeling you’d be coming,” the prince chuckled. 

“I would have left hours ago, given the choice,” the tactician grumbled. “I need my coat.”

“Where did Maribelle leave it?” Sumia asked. 

“That’s the question of the hour,” Robin sighed. “You go ahead, I’ll catch up.”

“We can help look,” Chrom volunteered. 

“You don’t have to,” the tactician murmured, reaching up to ruffle his hair -- but a quick glance toward the ballroom seemed to change his mind, and he rubbed the back of his neck instead. 

“Well, we want to,” the pegasus knight giggled. “Where do we start?”

“Gods only know -- are there changing rooms? Or guest rooms where visiting nobles might stay?” 

“This way.” Waving over his shoulder, the prince led the way down the narrow corridors to the east wing -- and from there, the tactician strode without hesitation to one door, peering around it before ducking inside and returning moments later with his usual clothes folded over his arm and his familiar coat already draped over his shoulders. 

“Gods, that’s much better,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair and mussing Maribelle’s handiwork with apparent relief. “Alright, now we can go.”

Making their way up another flight of stairs, Chrom opened the door onto the royal chambers, standing aside for both Sumia and Robin to enter ahead of him. And as he closed the door, he barred it for good measure before taking his seat at the small table where his wife and advisor had already settled. 

“So. What did you make of all that?” the prince asked. 

“That none of us are in high standing with the older nobles,” the tactician muttered, fussing with the unfamiliar clothes under his coat. “I’m a heathen out to ruin the halidom, Sumia’s a peasant aping nobility -- no offense,” he added, which Sumia waved off easily, “and you’re either ensorcelled by your Grimleal advisor, or else succumbing to the same weakness as your sister.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” Chrom sighed. “What else?”

“The younger nobles are somewhat more open to change. Lissa is quite in favor of reform, and both Ricken and Sully with her. Maribelle is likely your staunchest proponent, though she’s quite clever in her shows of support: she appears to brush aside this move as a ceremonial gesture, to placate the commoners, and in the next breath she subtly undermines the standing council members with their supporters, implying that unspoken alliances might be broken as soon as they are no longer advantageous. It’s quite cutthroat, if stunning in its execution.”

“That’s surprising,” the prince chuckled, watching as Sumia began to carefully unweave the silver ornaments and lilac sprigs from her hair. “What else?”

“Oh, this and that. Noble families at odds with one another, the great comeback of Ricken’s estate with his bravery as a Shepherd, some unrest in a few of the duchies to the north and east and gods damn why won’t this come off?”

Chrom and his wife both looked over at the tactician, struggling valiantly with his somewhat rumpled ascot. Sumia giggled, moving to sit on the arm of his chair. “Trouble?”

“To be frank, I’m not sure how Maribelle got me into all this in the first place,” Robin muttered. “The undershirt and trousers were sensible enough, but I can’t make heads or tails of the rest of this confounding mess.”

“Here, let me see.” The tactician turned to her as she reached toward him, neatly removing the garnet pin at his throat and setting it aside before gently unknotting and unwinding the cravat and drawing it free.

“How did you do that?”

She smiled as Robin picked the pin up, turning it in the firelight while she continued to work, undoing the tight clasps down the front of his jacket, then the close buttons on the doublet beneath. “There. Is that better?”

“Much,” the tactician sighed. “Gods, I’d almost forgotten how to breathe.” 

“These clothes are a nightmare,” Chrom agreed, struggling with his own as his wife agreeably moved to help. “Thank the gods we don’t have to deal with them every day.”

“You did look very dashing, though,” the pegasus knight murmured. “Both of you.”

Robin’s face went faintly pink at that. And redder still as the prince began to work at the hooks and laces of Sumia’s gown. “I-I should probably take my leave--”

“Don’t go yet,” she pleaded.

“It’s very late, a-and I don’t want to keep you from…a-anything,” the tactician mumbled, shrinking into his coat.

“You could jo--”

The pegasus knight gave her husband a warning look as she covered his mouth with her hand. “You’re not keeping us from anything,” she assured him. “It’s okay. Really.” As Chrom finally succeeded in unfastening the buttons of her overskirt, Sumia pulled away, sitting more comfortably on the arm of Robin’s chair as he fidgeted with his hands. “…we want you here,” she murmured, gently smoothing the hair away from the tactician’s face. 

“I-I don’t…I don’t know what to do,” Robin mumbled. 

Sumia smiled, gently lacing her fingers with his. “That’s alright. We can show you, if you want.”

The tactician looked to Chrom, who nodded in agreement as he crossed the room to join them, taking Robin’s other hand in his. 

And in the soft firelight, the prince saw him offer a quick, shy nod.

\-----

Sumia leaned close, resting her cheek against Robin's hair. "We'll be gentle," she promised. "And you don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. Okay?"

"O-okay," he whispered. Casting a pleased look toward her husband over the top of the tactician's head, the pegasus knight slipped her arms around Robin's shoulders, her fingers sifting through his pale hair.

"Can I kiss you?" she murmured. The tactician twitched, color rising swiftly in his cheeks as Chrom's fingers squeezed his hand. But he nodded, after a moment...and Sumia gently turned his head toward her, touching a light kiss to his lips. The prince smiled, shrugging out of his jacket and laying it aside as he watched the pegasus knight settle back. "Was that alright?"

The tactician nodded slightly, ruffling his hair even as she tried to smooth it back. "I'm glad," she giggled, turning on the arm of the chair and pointing awkwardly at the ribbons tying her bodice shut. "Would you mind helping me with this?" Glancing at Chrom, who nodded agreeably, Robin hesitantly unlaced the silver eyelets and drew the satin thread free. "That's much better," she sighed, holding her arms out as her husband rose from his place to help her remove it. "Thank you both."

Negotiating the corset free of her sleeves proved more challenging than expected; by the time he'd finished, the tactician's blush had subsided, and the ribbon lay in a tight coil in the palm of his hand, "Should we take this to the bedroom?" Chrom asked. 

Robin huddled deeper into his seat, tugging his hood up over his face. Shaking her head, Sumia gently patted the tactician's shoulder. "Can I sit next to you?" she murmured. He scooted closer to the other side of the chair, pressing himself into the smallest possible space he could manage; the pegasus knight settled in close beside him, curling her arms around his shoulders and resting her cheek against the peak of his hood. "Ignore him."

"Hey!"

"You're being an ass," she huffed, casting a sharp glance in his direction. "It's okay, Robin. Really. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. We can stay right here -- don't worry about Chrom, he's just..."

"Being Chrom," the tactician mumbled from under his cowl.

"Exactly."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just what it sounds like."

The prince was certain he saw Robin smile under his hood. And then he lowered his head slightly, toying with the ribbon wound in his palm. "We ca...w-we can go."

Chrom saw his own surprise mirrored in his wife's expression. "Okay," she nodded. Holding out a hand to each of them, the prince gently helped both Robin and Sumia to their feet, leading the way toward the doors opening on the bedchamber. The tactician hesitated, looking again to both the prince and his wife for confirmation; the pegasus knight smiled, gently taking hold of his hand as Chrom slipped an arm around his waist...and they both guided Robin over the threshold. 

While the tactician looked around the room, the prince and his wife resumed their own undressing, shedding the last of their formal wear and sitting on the edge of the bed in their undergarments. One glance at Sumia in her chemise and Chrom in his smallclothes made Robin shrink just slightly further into his coat. "Is he always this shy?" the pegasus knight murmured. 

"He turned me down more than he accepted," the prince admitted, patting the space between them. Reaching up under his hood to rub the back of his neck, the tactician picked his way across the floor to join them, wrapping his robe tighter around himself even as Chrom and Sumia settled in close on either side. 

"Are you nervous?" she asked, folding her hands around his fingers. Robin nodded, leaning tentatively against the prince's shoulder. "You've been with Chrom, though, right?" He nodded again, fidgeting with the clasp of his coat as the captain slipped an arm around him, nuzzling the raised hood. "Was it nice?"

"I-I...it never felt quite real," the tactician whispered. "Like I might have dreamed it."

"To be fair, he hadn't slept in a few days," Chrom murmured. 

"What!? Why not!?"

"Campaign stress."

"Why did you push him into it, then?"

"He needed to relax."

"...did it help?" she prompted. 

"Well, he says he slept," the prince offered as Robin managed another shy nod. 

"I can't believe you sometimes," Sumia huffed, drawing the tactician against her shoulder and reaching up under his hood to smooth his hair. "That's no way to treat somebody you care about."

"Even if it helped?"

"That's not the point!"

"What is the point, then?"

"It should be something... _meaningful,_ " she protested. 

"It meant something to me," he smiled, gently lacing his fingers with Robin's. 

"But he didn't even think it really happened!" Which, Chrom reasoned, explained why the tactician never seemed flustered afterward, when even the smallest gestures could make him flush. 

"I wasn't trying to take advantage," the prince insisted. 

"This won't be like that," Sumia promised. "You don't have to worry, Robin. Just relax, okay?"

The tactician mumbled something that Chrom couldn't quite catch. But when the prince brushed his cowl back, Robin did not scramble to lift it again -- and when the pegasus knight pressed another kiss to his lips, he shivered but did not pull away. 

"Do you need any help with this?" Sumia asked as she withdrew, touching the collar of his vest. Shaking his head slightly, the tactician finally slipped out of his coat, shrugging awkwardly out of the jerkin in another moment, and struggling with the tight doublet underneath; smiling, Chrom gently coaxed it from his shoulders while his wife helped him with first one sleeve, then the other. 

As Robin leaned down to fuss with the buckles on his boots, the prince slipped his arms around the tactician's waist, unbuckling his belt and pressing a kiss to his nape. "Is this alright?" 

"It still doesn't feel quite real," Robin breathed, folding his arms on his knees. "This isn't...something that can happen to me."

"Why not?" Sumia asked. Chrom curled his fingers around the tactician's marked hand, offering a reassuring squeeze. "Robin...where you're from or what you believe don't make you undeserving of good things. You're kind and thoughtful and giving and...you have every right to have friends and nice things and to just be _happy._ And...and _we_ want to help make you happy, if we can. It's the _least_ you deserve."

"She's right," the prince murmured. "So try to relax. And enjoy yourself."

"That seems to be the mantra of the night," the tactician mumbled, fighting his way out of the close-fitting trousers. Laughing warmly, Chrom pulled Robin against his chest, coiling his arms around the tactician's waist and nuzzling the back of his neck. Sumia giggled, scooting closer and touching another light kiss to Robin's lips...before slipping off the bed, shedding her shift and sitting back down beside them while the tactician folded his hands tight, hunching his shoulders and staring down at his laced fingers. 

"Have you ever seen a girl undressed before?" she asked. Robin made a vague noise, fidgeting nervously in the prince's arms. "Not like this?" she suggested. He nodded in agreement as the pegasus knight crossed her ankles, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. "W-well...you could look at me. If you wanted. I'd be happy, if you would."

Chrom, for his part, couldn't look away. Soft curves graced by the gentle lamplight, silver ringlets spilling over her shoulders and across her breasts, the faintest blush of color in her cheeks...he wondered, as the tactician lifted his head, if he saw the same sight that the prince did as they looked on her. 

"You're beautiful," Robin whispered. Sumia's face went slightly rosier at that. 

"I'm glad you think so," she giggled. 

"I know I've told you that before," Chrom protested. 

"This isn't about you," the pegasus knight replied, touching a teasing kiss to the tip of his nose. "I do appreciate it, though," she whispered. And then she turned to the tactician, her voice softening as she touched his hand. "Could I see you, too?"

Robin offered a shy nod, pulling the shirt slowly over his head and balling it in his lap, rubbing the back of his hand beneath the embroidered bird. "It's dark enough," the prince breathed. "She won't see."

The tactician turned a faint smile on him, removing his gloves with great care and setting them aside even as Chrom folded his fingers over the six-eyed mark. Slipping closer, Sumia took Robin's other hand, lacing her fingers gently with his and touching another soft kiss to his cheek. "Is this still okay?" she asked.

He drew in a slow, shaky breath, hunching his shoulders slightly. "I don't...I-I'm not used to any of this. ...I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Oh, Robin, don't be sorry," Sumia murmured. "It's okay. Is there anything we can do?"

"...forgive me?" he pleaded. 

"What is there to forgive?" the prince chuckled, kissing the back of the tactician's neck.

"You haven't done anything wrong," the pegasus knight agreed. "This is new. It's okay to be unsure. I was, too, my first time. But we took it slow, and...it was really nice." She blushed, turning a glowing smile on her husband. "It doesn't matter what we do, or even if we do anything. Take all the time you need: we're just happy you're here with us."

"...why?" Robin whispered.

"Because we love you," Chrom replied, tightening his arm on the tactician's waist as Robin began to shiver.

"We do," Sumia beamed. Snuggling in against them and wrapping her arms around the tactician's shoulders, the pegasus knight touched her forehead to his...and Robin sniffled faintly, curling his arm around her in a tentative embrace. 

She smiled, pressing a warm kiss to his lips. And at last the tactician returned it, as shyly as he had ever touched the prince; grinning to himself, Chrom withdrew, his lips grazing Robin's shoulder as he settled back to watch them. 

It was hard to admit it, but Sumia was probably better suited for drawing the tactician into this than her husband was. She was gentle with him, patient, coaxing him one slow step at a time: she cupped his face in her hands, kissed him tenderly across his cheeks and brow, until at last a shy smile touched his mouth; only then did her fingers stray, settling on his shoulders as she tilted her forehead against his. "You can touch, if you want," she murmured. Robin's face flushed in the dim light...but after a few moments, he lifted one hand to cup her cheek, his long fingers brushing the hair back behind her ear. She made a soft sound, folding her hand around his and guiding his touch down to her chest. His fingers tensed, but she stroked his knuckles encouragingly...and after a long hesitation, he caressed her breast, drawing a sweet sound from the pegasus knight. 

"You're very soft," he whispered. 

"And you're very sweet," she giggled. "And very gentle."

His shy expression brightened, the faint color in his cheeks deepening as her hands trailed down his chest and stomach. Pausing at his hips, she peeked up at the tactician's face...and he bit his lip, glancing at Chrom as the prince settled behind him and began to trace the faded scars along his sides.

"Are you alright?" Chrom asked.

"Are you sure about this?" Robin whispered.

"I am if you are," he replied.

"I am, too," Sumia smiled. The tactician looked between them again, his face warming until the prince could feel the heat against his cheek as he pressed his lips to Robin's shoulder.

"...a-alright."

Chrom grinned as the pegasus knight kissed the tactician again, watching as her fingers crept down into his smallclothes, listening to the faint sound he made as he pressed back against the prince's chest--

"What is _that?"_

"Foreskin," Chrom and Robin replied in unison. The prince laughed as the tactician buried his face in his hands, wrapping his arms around Robin's waist and rocking them back while the pegasus knight curiously teased the tactician's undergarments down. Much to Chrom's surprise, Robin's cock was still soft, only beginning to stiffen as Sumia teased at the skin covering his head.

"Is that a Grimleal thing?" she asked.

"Apparently it's normal," the prince replied. "They cut it in Ylisse, but I don't remember ever having one."

"It's easiest to do it while a boy is still a babe," the tactician mumbled.

"I suppose that would explain it," Chrom mused. "Be careful with him. He's sensitive."

"How sensitive?" Sumia asked, curling her fingers around Robin's length and squeezing the tip--

The tactician arched, his breath fraying into a gasp. "That sensitive," the prince chuckled, pressing a kiss to the side of Robin's neck as he squirmed. It was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate -- and all the more as the tactician's hips shifted against his own, rubbing against his cock and drawing a low groan from deep in Chrom's chest, pleasure lancing through his core--

"It sounds like someone else is getting excited," the pegasus knight giggled, nuzzling her husband's forehead. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Yes," he breathed, cupping her face in one hand and pulling her into a warm, deep kiss. He felt her shift, straddling the tactician's hips, her fingers brushing against Chrom's as they both touched Robin's length, guiding him as she settled--

_"Stop."_

They froze as the tactician began to struggle, shaking his head fiercely as he strained back against the prince's chest. "Stop, stop, I-I can't -- I'm sorry, I'm sorry, ple-ease, I can't--"

Sumia hushed him gently, cupping his face in her hands as she settled close beside him. "It's okay -- oh, Robin, it's okay, it's okay, don't apologize, it's okay..."

Easing from his place behind the tactician, Chrom smoothed Robin's pale hair back. "It's alright," he murmured, folding the tactician's fingers between his own. "It's alright, calm down...just take a breath."

Robin hiccoughed, gripping his arm with his free hand, and the prince was briefly distracted by how different that nervous tic seemed without the familiar gloves and coat -- and how much smaller the tactician looked without them, his lean frame folding inward as the prince and his wife held him. But though Robin shivered, Chrom did not feel the warning shudder of tears or the rapid gasping of his panic -- and even his shaking stilled in little enough time. 

"I'm sorry," the tactician whispered again. 

"It's nothing to apologize for," the pegasus knight reassured him, pressing a kiss to his temple. "I'm sorry for pushing you."

"Y-you didn't know," he sighed. "Gods, _I_ didn't know. I shouldn't have -- I-I'm sorry--"

"No more apologizing," the prince declared.

"I'm so--"

"No."

"But--"

Chrom silenced Robin with a kiss that sent a tremor through him. "No," he repeated patiently, his lips brushing against the tactician's mouth. "If you don't feel ready, you don't feel ready. Don't apologize for it."

"Even though I spoiled things?"

"What have you spoiled?" the prince grinned. "We can still enjoy ourselves. I'll take care of Sumia. You can watch." 

"Chrom!" she laughed, swatting his shoulder as Robin's face began to burn. "You don't have to," she assured the tactician.

"Only if you want to," the prince conceded. Though he did hope that Robin would. Removing his smallclothes, Chrom settled beside his wife, drawing her close as she stretched against his chest. Soft as she seemed, he could feel her strength when he caressed her thighs; she snared him in a warm kiss, her arm curling tight around his shoulders and her free hand stroking his cock harder while he gently rubbed between her legs. 

A soft sound rose in her throat, her rosy cheeks flushing a shade darker. "Seems like I'm not the only one who's been getting excited," he rumbled, his fingers sliding easily against her wet lips. Her breathless laughter stirred his blood -- and when she moved, turning her back to him and straddling his hips, he coiled his arms around her and drew her down as she guided him on. 

They both tensed as he entered her; her fingers gripped his thigh, her chest heaving under his hand as she settled into his lap. Tightening his embrace, Chrom pressed his cheek to her shoulder, his hips thrusting against her -- and her moan filled his ears, lancing pleasure through him as she rocked into his next movement. 

The heat built rapidly, burning through his senses as they moved together. "Is this alright?" he murmured, nuzzling Sumia's jaw. He felt her nod, her head tilting to sneak him an awkward kiss. Glancing toward the tactician, the prince felt a sharp thrill as he caught Robin's eye, watching his face redden further in the dim light...

...and he saw the pegasus knight reach out in the same moment, inviting the tactician closer. "C-could I ask you a favo-or?" she breathed. Robin nodded, still casting only the occasional shy glance toward them as he approached. "Can you touch me?" she asked. 

Chrom was not surprised to see the tactician shrink, his shoulders hunching as he rubbed the back of his neck...but he was shocked when Robin looked toward them again, offering a very slight nod. And as soon as he came near enough, Sumia's fingers sifted into the tactician's pale hair, pulling him into a deep, passionate kiss. 

Which only made it harder to concentrate. 

The pegasus knight arched against his chest, her soft cries muted against Robin's mouth. The roll of her hips, the heat of her body, wound the pressure tighter and tighter in his core until he could focus on little else beyond the sharp, sweet flare of pleasure that met her every movement--

Her sudden cry overwhelmed the pulse pounding in his ears. Her body tensed and trembled, and it took everything he had to still himself, holding her tight and struggling to find the sense to voice a question, to ensure she was alright--

"No no no don't stop -- please don't stop, it was good, I swear, i-it felt _wonderful, please..._ "

Peering over Sumia's shoulder, he watched as the tactician returned hesitantly to his place before them...and as his hands strayed down out of sight, the prince smiled and thrust into her again, letting her moan drown out his senses. He was close, he could feel it building, but still he held fast as they moved together until the heat and the ache were all he knew... 

He came, a heady groan rising from somewhere deep in his chest as he pulled her in close -- and in the next instant her every muscle tensed against him, around him, as she reached her peak. They did not move for a moment, his breaths beginning to even and calm while the last of her quivering spasms stilled...but at last she lifted free, settling beside her husband and leaning against his shoulder.

"That was nice," Chrom mumbled, touching a kiss to her temple. "What did you think?" he asked, smiling as he looked to Robin.

The tactician rubbed his neck, casting a shy glance toward the prince and his wife. "It was...intense. ...I-I don't know. This is...a bit overwhelming."

The pegasus knight shifted to nestle against Robin's side, folding his free hand between her fingers. "That's okay," she assured him. "This is new. For me, too. But I'm really glad you came."

The tactician blushed, ruffling his hair as Chrom moved to lean against his other shoulder. "What about you, now?" the prince murmured, settling a hand on Robin's thigh. Much to his surprise, the tactician's cock had gone soft again. "Did you...?"

"N-no, it's alright," Robin insisted, color prickling at his face again. "Really, don't worry--"

"We're not worried," Chrom replied. "But we would like you to have a nice time. Right?"

"Right," Sumia smiled. "Would it be okay if...we just touched? Maybe?"

The tactician said nothing. The prince waited patiently, closing his eyes and tilting his head against Robin's hair, listening to the quiet sound of his breath...

"Alright."

His whisper brought with it a new rush of warmth. Smiling to himself, Chrom settled behind the tactician again, pressing kisses to his neck and shoulders while his hands caressed the faded scars along Robin's sides. The pegasus knight's fingers brushed past his as her touch trailed down the tactician's chest and stomach -- and though his breath caught as she stroked him again, Robin did not struggle or withdraw.

"Is this okay?" she asked. He felt the tactician nod, brushed his lips against the curve of his jaw...and reached down, curling his hand gently around Robin's length. The tactician shivered, a faint sound snaring in his throat as the prince teased his foreskin back; his breath huffed as Sumia's fingers rubbed his head, infinitely more careful than her first attempt; and as they both stroked him, Robin bit his lip, stifling a warm murmur as he leaned back against Chrom's chest. 

Every touch sent a tremor through the tactician, made his breath tighten and fray. As hard as Robin tried to keep silent, the prince could feel the faint vibration in his chest when the tactician pressed against him -- and as he began to curl inward, Robin gripped the arm coiled around his waist, his fingers tensing on Chrom's wrist...

And with a sharp gasp he came, his back arching before the strength spilled out of him and he sagged into the prince's embrace, blinking dazedly and making no effort to recollect himself.

"O-oh my. Does he always do that?" the pegasus knight asked.

"It's happened every other time, so..." Chrom shrugged, drawing the tactician up against him. "Hey. Are you still with us?"

Robin's eyes fluttered as Sumia touched his cheek...and after a moment's thought he offered a wordless murmur of agreement. Giggling softly, the pegasus knight touched a kiss to his forehead. "Was it nice?" she asked.

A warm, drowsy smile spread across the tactician's face as he nodded, nuzzling the prince's shoulder. "I'm glad," she whispered, smoothing the hair out of his face. They made at least a halfhearted attempt to clean up, saying few words but sneaking a kiss here and there -- but as Robin attempted to slip away, both Chrom and Sumia took careful hold of him, pulling him down onto the bed between them.

"Go to sleep," the prince chuckled, leaning over to snuff out the lamp at the bedside before wrapping the coverlet around them all. 

"I intend to," his wife yawned, snuggling against the tactician's chest. 

"That means you, too, Robin," Chrom teased.

"...are you sure it's alright for me to stay?" the tactician mumbled.

"Of course we are," Sumia replied. "We love you, Robin. And we're so glad you're here."

The tactician nestled closer as the prince draped an arm across his chest. And his last memory before sleep settled over him was of Robin's quiet murmur: "I love you, too."


	21. Covert Affairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the ball brings with it mixed blessings and curses: while the deepening warmth and affection between Robin and the royal family puts them all at risk should they be discovered, of equal concern are the nobles who continue to threaten the dream of peace and equality in the halidom. But as the mounting pressures of their duties threaten to break them, Chrom finally gains the upper hand, and makes some very special arrangements...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: None...?**
> 
>   
>  Anyone who's still sticking around for this is a champion deserving of boundless praise.
> 
> So after getting massively sidetracked by several other stories while this chapter was still half-way through draft, I finally managed to get my head back into the deep political intrigue space and wrap this up over the course of a few days (amazing how fast it goes when you're in the right mood, isn't it?). While this might not be the most exciting chapter in terms of action, rest assured that even the smallest things have their purpose in the grand scheme of things.
> 
> More perspective shifts this chapter. Dashes (-) still indicate a change of scene, while stars (*) indicate a change of perspective. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

As he had every day since childhood, Chrom woke with the tolling of the bells from the church spire…and this morning, he immediately regretted it. The ball had been grand, to be sure, but far more taxing than he’d expected. He must be getting soft from all this political nonsense. Groaning miserably, the prince tightened his arms around the warm body tucked against him-- 

And paused when it was not the one he’d expected. 

Squinting in the weak light, Chrom found Robin in his embrace, Sumia snuggled close against the tactician’s chest. And a smile spread across his face as he tucked his nose into Robin’s pale, soft hair. He’d almost thought that was a dream. Even if it wasn’t, he’d fully expected the tactician to be gone by the time they woke. 

“Good morning,” the prince murmured behind Robin’s ear. 

“I shouldn’t be here.” 

“I think this is exactly where you should be,” Chrom chuckled, tightening his hold on the tactician’s waist. 

“This is the _last_ place I should be.” 

“But you’re still here.” 

“I’m rather trapped at present,” Robin muttered. And the prince had no intention of letting him go anytime soon. “If someone catches me in here like this--” 

“They won’t.” 

“You can’t guarantee that.” 

“Can so.” 

“How?” 

“It’s too early,” Sumia mumbled, cuddling closer. 

“Well, good morning,” the prince grinned. “Sorry if we woke you.” 

“I should really go--” 

“No,” Chrom and his wife replied in unison. 

The tactician fell silent, shivering in the prince’s arms. Frowning slightly, Chrom hugged him slightly tighter -- only to feel the tremors intensify, rather than ease. 

“What’s wrong?” the pegasus knight asked, touching Robin’s cheek with the tips of her fingers. 

“I can’t be here,” he whispered. “Please, I have to go…” 

Sumia hushed him gently, touching a kiss to the tactician’s forehead before pushing herself upright. “It’s okay, Robin. Can we talk a bit, before you leave?” 

The tactician sat up beside her, folding inward as she slipped her arms around his shoulders. “Is this about what happened last night?” she murmured. Robin nodded, running one hand through his hair as the prince joined them. “Was it bad?” 

“N-no,” the tactician replied. 

“Did you like it?” she pressed gently. 

Robin nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “It…wasn’t like anything else,” he whispered. “It was warm, a-and…and nice.” 

“I’m glad,” Sumia smiled, resting her cheek against the tactician’s hair. “I’m so glad you stayed with us, Robin.” 

“But I can’t stay any longer.” 

His voice dropped to a whisper, fingers curling in the bedclothes -- and Chrom saw the six-eyed brand in the pale light, stark violet against the tactician’s skin. Settling closer, the prince lay his hand over Robin’s mark, lacing their fingers comfortingly. “Why not?” 

“This is _dangerous_ ,” the tactician insisted. “My accompanying you last night might have been suspect, but it wouldn’t have been impossible to explain away. If I’m found here like this--” 

“You won’t be,” the prince promised. 

“--it may be the last time you ever see me.” 

A choking silence settled over them, disturbed only by Robin’s sharp breaths. “If the council isn’t up in arms over it, the clergy most certainly will be,” he continued. “A Grimleal heretic in the exalt’s chambers? A Plegian heathen seducing the royal family? They will demand at the very least my removal from the court -- preferably my exile from Ylisse -- if not my head on a spike.” 

“We won’t let that happen,” Chrom growled, tightening his grip on the tactician’s fingers. 

“You may not have a choice, if they imagine your judgment has been compromised.” 

“They don’t have that kind of power--” 

“Perhaps not directly,” the tactician conceded. “But they may attempt to force your hand.” 

…and Chrom had seen first-hand how far they were willing to go to secure their own interests. 

“I’ve already stayed too long. I have to go while there’s still any chance of escaping unnoticed, o-or I’ll _never_ be able to come back.” 

“…but you would want to come back?” the pegasus knight ventured. 

“…if I could,” he whispered. “If you’d have me.” 

“Of course we would,” she murmured, touching a kiss to his temple. 

“We’d have you every night, if we could,” Chrom agreed. 

“So what if you just…stayed here?” Sumia suggested. 

“If I’m found here--” 

“We can all get dressed and go sit in the parlour,” she explained. “So when someone comes in, it’ll just look like you got here before everyone else to talk about the ball.” 

She smiled as both her husband and the tactician turned to look at her. “…early tactical meeting,” Chrom chuckled. “Wasn’t that the excuse we used last time?” 

“…it might be enough to belay suspicion,” Robin agreed. “Provided we don’t make a habit of it.” 

Beaming, Sumia hugged him tight as the prince wrapped his arms around the both of them…and he felt the tactician’s tremors finally ease as they held him, his breath coming out in a slow, steady sigh. 

In another moment they roused themselves and prepared to greet the morning. Gathering up his coat from where it had fallen by the bedside, Robin slipped out into the sitting room to reclaim the rest of his familiar clothes while Chrom and his wife began to dig through the wardrobe for something more comfortable than their lavish attire from the ball. It took little enough time for them to finish dressing, and as the pegasus knight began to comb through her hair, the prince washed his face at the basin under the window. Turning toward the bed, he watched for a moment as the tactician folded his finery in a neat pile, looking far calmer now than he had since they woke. 

“Sumia will probably be another minute,” he remarked, taking a seat beside Robin. “Do you want to get washed up?” 

“Would you mind?” he asked. 

“Of course not,” Chrom chuckled. “Take your time -- we still have a while before Frederick makes an appearance.” The tactician smiled shyly, moving to the low chest of drawers and looking out at the palace grounds as he scrubbed his face with the soft linen cloth. 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” the pegasus knight murmured, moving to stand beside him as she tied her hair back. 

“It’s beautiful,” Robin agreed, stepping aside for her. “Thank you for sharing all of this with me.” 

“You don’t need to thank us,” Sumia beamed. 

“We _want_ to share this with you,” Chrom agreed, rising from the edge of the bed and slipping his arms around the tactician’s waist. 

“N-now isn’t the time for that,” Robin protested, his face burning as the prince kissed his cheek. Laughing warmly, Chrom made his way out into the parlour, unbarring the door and flopping into one of the chairs by the cold hearth. The pegasus knight took a seat beside him, patting the arm of the nearest chair invitingly…but the tactician shook his head, adjusting his grip on the bundle of clothes tucked under his arm. “Best not. For appearances.” 

“…I suppose,” the prince sighed, propping his head on his fist. “So what are your plans for today?” 

“I need to get back to training,” Sumia replied, twisting a short strand of beads around a lock of hair framing her face. “Cordelia’s had to do everything on her own lately while we were getting ready for the ball, so I’d like to start helping out again now that it’s over. What about you?” 

“I’m hoping that most of the council will be sleeping off last night’s wine so I can do some training of my own,” Chrom chuckled. “I think I’ve been neglecting it too long, and Sully’s going to give me an earful if I can’t keep up. How about you, Robin?” 

“There’s a great deal to be done,” the tactician murmured. “I’d like to spend the morning discussing the events of the night with Maribelle -- I imagine she’ll have quite a few insights into the current mood of the court, and her advice may prove instrumental in pushing ahead with our attempts to restructure the council.” 

“And you can give those clothes back,” the prince grinned. 

“There is that, as well,” he agreed sheepishly, running a hand through his unkempt hair. How the noblewoman had managed to make something so presentable out of it was a mystery to Chrom. 

As he drew breath for another question, a sharp knock sounded at the door of their chambers. Robin tensed instinctively -- but the prince offered a reassuring gesture as he raised his head. “Who is it?” 

“Frederick, milord.” 

“Right on time,” Chrom muttered. And then, louder, “Come in.” 

The great knight entered without hesitation -- and stopped, eyes narrowing as he caught sight of the tactician. “Good morning,” he said, his voice clipped as he clanked across the room to join them. 

“Good morning,” the prince replied. “I hope the ball didn’t keep you too late.” 

“Not at all. The festivities quieted soon after you retired for the night. I’m pleased to see that you appear rested and ready to meet the day -- breakfast will be served shortly, and you have several audiences scheduled this afternoon regarding additional funding for the ongoing reconstruction efforts in the city.” 

“Nothing slated for this morning?” Chrom ventured. 

“No, milord. Unless Robin had an audience that I was unaware of,” Frederick remarked pointedly. 

The tactician did not flinch. He only turned one of his vague half-smiles on the great knight. “Not at all,” he murmured. “Since I was unaware of Prince Chrom’s schedule for the day, I thought it would be best to stop by before breakfast if I wanted to discuss last night’s ball before his audiences began.” 

“You must have arrived quite early,” Frederick prompted. 

“Ordinarily I rouse at dawn,” Robin shrugged. “I was more surprised that Prince Chrom and Lady Sumia were awake when I knocked.” 

“The church bells always wake me,” the prince confessed. 

“And usually Chrom getting up wakes me up,” the pegasus knight giggled. 

“…I see.” Though he continued to glance sidelong at the tactician, the great knight maintained his usual stern composure as he cleared his throat. “I would recommend from here on that you make use of proper channels and schedule audiences with Prince Chrom in advance. Preferably for after the morning meal. It may be construed as worrisome, having such an early visit from the Shepherds’ tactician.” 

“Of course,” Robin agreed, inclining his head slightly. “I do appreciate your concern, and your advice -- I still have a great deal to learn about the workings of the palace, and every bit helps.” 

Frederick’s eyes narrowed suspiciously in the face of that gratitude. But the tactician paid him no more mind, instead offering a low bow to Chrom and Sumia. “While I will be sure to request an audience next time, it was a pleasure to speak with you, milord. Milady. I look forward to seeing you both again soon.” 

It took every ounce of willpower the prince had to contain the joy threatening to overwhelm him at those words. As the great knight turned to watch Robin leave, he lost the battle entirely, a brilliant grin spreading across his face -- and as he glanced toward his wife, he found that delight reflected in her glowing smile. 

***

Robin had to admit, he was rather surprised that Frederick had not pressed the matter of propriety any further. Perhaps that touch of deference had saved him. But whatever the case, the tactician wasted no time in making his way down to the archives, setting his noble finery aside on the edge of the desk and beginning to commit everything he’d gleaned from the ball to writing. Every chance remark, every conversation heard in passing, every glance and sneer and purported slip, had some value…even if he couldn’t see it yet. Maribelle’s insights would be instrumental in puzzling through the convoluted web of court connections. 

A decent rest had done him quite a lot of good; he heard the window in the far corner of the library creak open, the light shuffle of boot steps on bare stone…and, of course, the telltale crunch of candy. “Good morning, Gaius,” he called, setting aside another page to dry. 

“Mornin’, Bubbles,” the thief replied, hopping onto the edge of the desk. “Ditched the jester costume, huh?” 

“At the first available opportunity,” the tactician agreed, patting the bundle of clothes beside him. “I’ll be returning them to Maribelle when I see her next. So, how did you fare through the evening?” 

“Depends,” Gaius grinned. “You got somethin’ for me?” 

“You didn’t have enough last night at the party?” 

“Bite your tongue, Bubbles, ain’t no such thing as ‘enough’ with the sugar.” 

Robin felt a faint, wry smile tug at his expression, and did nothing to hide it as he removed a purse filled near to bursting with sugar drops and honey crystals from a hidden coat pocket; the thief’s eyes widened as the tactician set it down between them before smoothing his parchment and readying his quill. “So, then. Did you fare well?” 

“You don’t know the half of it. Most folks didn’t even notice I was there. Makes for great eavesdropping,” Gaius winked. And as Robin offered a quick nod of approval, the thief snatched the bag and began to rattle off everything he’d heard the night prior. Though he had little attention to spare for processing the information (or for Gaius’ occasional remarks on the state of his handwriting), the tactician dutifully took down every word, setting aside one page after another to dry. 

When Gaius at last fell silent, Robin flipped through his small stack of remaining parchment and gently swirled his inkwell. He would need to restock both in short order, at this rate. “Is there more?” he prompted. 

“I’m thinkin,” the thief replied. “It was a busy night, kinda hard t’keep it all straight. Did I mention that some northern blueblood’s put out a call for mercenaries? Somethin’ ‘bout wantin’ to make sure his stuff is safe in case of more raids from Plegia?” 

“You didn’t,” the tactician muttered, jotting another note on a fresh page. “Did you happen to hear a name?” 

“…gimme a minute.” Robin waited, patiently, as the thief mumbled something to himself that sounded suspiciously like ‘more sugar’ before removing the lollipop from his mouth. “Pretty sure it was Shoure?” 

“…how confident are you.” 

“A lot happened last night, Bubbles, but I’m pretty sure that was it.” 

Well, that was troubling. A member of the council looking to amass a trained fighting force for any reason was cause for concern. All the more for how thin an excuse it seemed when Plegia had shown no signs of aggression following Gangrel’s defeat-- 

“Oh, Robin!” 

The tactician looked up at the cheerful call, rising as the door opened and Maribelle bustled into the archives. “Hello, Maribelle,” he replied, offering a polite bow. “How are you this morning?” 

“Oh, simply lovely,” she sighed. “The ball went off _spectacularly_ , if I do say so myself, and it seems that you made _quite_ the impression. Now, aren’t you glad you let me handle your…” 

Her words and steps both came to an abrupt halt. Glancing up at her, Robin saw that the noblewoman’s smile had vanished, replaced by a stern frown underscoring her narrowed eyes. “…is something wrong?” he asked. 

“What is _he_ doing here?” 

The tactician blinked. Turning back to the desk, he saw Gaius looking down and away from the duchess’ glare. “Gaius is a friend,” he replied. “We were just--” 

“Well, I certainly did not intend to interrupt,” she cut in, her voice clipped. “I’ll leave you to your conversation.” 

“You don’t need to leave,” the tactician protested. 

“I would rather not occupy the same room as that treacherous louse,” she snapped. “And for your own safety, I would recommend that you re-evaluate your ‘friendship,’ as well. Good day, Robin; I’ll call again later when you’re no longer preoccupied.” 

The tactician watched her turn and stride from the room without so much as a backward glance. And as the door closed, he slowly returned to his seat, glancing toward the thief still perched on the edge of his desk. “…may I ask what that was about?” he prompted. 

“Ancient history, Bubbles,” Gaius muttered. “The kind’a stuff it’s better to just leave buried.” 

Robin was inclined to argue that point, when said history sent someone storming out of the room. 

But now did not seem the time. “…as you say,” he murmured, digging into his pockets and removing a small bundle wrapped in a handkerchief; unfolding the clean wrapping, the tactician offered a sugar-dusted fig to the thief. 

“Ain’t got more info yet,” Gaius pointed out. 

“Friends don’t need a reason to give gifts,” Robin pointed out. “And regardless of what Maribelle might think, I do appreciate you as a friend as much as I value your skills as an informant.” 

A weak smile twitched at the thief’s expression as he plucked the candied fruit from the tactician’s hand. “You got a funny way of givin’ compliments, Bubbles,” he chuckled, popping the treat into his mouth. “But thanks. …you’re not gonna go tellin’ anybody about that, right?” 

“If I did, you’d have every right to reveal that you’re effectively spying for me,” Robin assured him. 

“…I’m glad you’re on my side,” Gaius grinned. 

The tactician returned it, propping his chin in one hand. “The feeling is entirely mutual.” 

\-----

Robin was still terribly uncomfortable exercising his supposedly ‘noble’ status. It fit him poorly, in his own mind: Chrom might trust the tactician’s judgment enough to give him a semblance of command in combat, but what right did he have to hand down orders off the battlefield? And especially to people he barely knew, about things he barely understood?

But he had to make an attempt. The events of the morning had been troubling at best, between Gaius’ report and Maribelle’s curt departure; he sensed that he and the duchess would need to have a very long chat before the day was through. So he made his way out of the archives, navigating the confusing web of corridors and stairways, until he finally caught the aroma of woodsmoke and fresh bread. From there, he had no trouble at all finding his way to the warm, bustling kitchens in the far corner of Ylisstol Castle.

Gods, everything smelled incredible. He’d been so focused on committing his recollections to parchment that he’d missed breakfast in the garrison again. Now he was beginning to regret it--

“Can I help you, sir?”

Robin turned to see a worn-looking woman standing a few feet away, watching him expectantly. Feeling rather sheepish for his atrocious manners, the tactician offered a smile and a slight bow as he moved to stand beside her, clearing the way for whatever staff might be coming or going. “Please pardon the intrusion, but I was wondering who I should speak with regarding tea arrangements.”

“Tea?” 

“Yes,” he agreed. “I was planning to host Lady Maribelle this afternoon, but I’m afraid I don’t...precisely know how to go about it.”

Her lined face softened in a reassuring smile. “You’re Prince Chrom’s tactician, aren’t you?”

“I was, yes,” he admitted, slipping his hands into his pockets to keep from rubbing his Eyes. “I’m the archivist now, and something of an advisor, but...I’m still not terribly sure how things work here. It’s nothing like I’m used to.”

“Well, you’ve nothin’ to fret over,” she chuckled. “You’re in the right place, Sir Archivist. We’ll see to it for you, you jes’ tell us where it goes.”

“Thank you,” he smiled, offering another slight bow. “I much appreciate the help, Miss…?”

“...Marjorie,” she replied.

“Miss Marjorie,” he finished. “I’m Robin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“You really don’t know how things work here, do you, Sir Robin?” she laughed.

“...Lady Maribelle has been teaching me manners,” he mumbled, folding his hands behind his back and nervously rubbing his Eyes. Had he done something wrong?

“Those’re courtly manners. Ain’t often we scullery maids get highborn folk makin’ introductions.”

“Well, I’m not exactly highborn. My position is by appointment, and...I don’t actually think I have any title to speak of--”

The room fell suddenly still as Robin’s stomach betrayed him with a very loud, rumbling complaint; a flurry of giggles broke the silence that followed and sent him shrinking down into his collar. Gods, he shouldn’t have dawdled so long--

“What’ve we got here?”

Marjorie hid a grin in her sleeve as he turned to see a stern-looking woman in a sooty apron standing behind him. “My apologies,” he mumbled, bowing his head. “I’ve taken up enough of your time--”

“Not so fast,” the cook grumbled, catching the hood of his coat as he tried to slip past. “Seems t’me you been keepin’ one’a my girls preoccupied. I’ll be needin’ a favor t’ make up fer the time you wasted.”

“What would you ask of me?” A heavy sense of dread gnawed at the tactician as she marched him toward a bare stretch of countertop, pulling out a rickety stool for him to sit on. He wasn’t a bad hand at cleaning fruits or vegetables, but if she asked much more than that he’d likely land himself in more trouble asking for assistance…

A pink-faced woman bustled over and set a platter in the space before him, winking cheerfully before hurrying off again. Robin’s trepidation rapidly turned to confusion as he looked over the tray, piled high with thick slices of buttered bread, generous cuts of ham, roasted root vegetables glazed in honey, and what looked like half of a crowberry pie. “M-Ma’am?” he mumbled, glancing toward the cook wiping her hands on her apron.

“I’ve need of a taste tester,” she huffed. “Ain’t a feast night, but if it ain’t worthy of a feast table, it ain’t leavin’ my kitchen. You been to a feast, haven’cha?”

“Y-yes, last night--”

“Good. Now, eat up.”

...it didn’t seem like much of a favor to make up for time wasted. But he didn’t care to cross her, either. Taking up the fork from the side of the platter, Robin obediently began to sample from the impromptu meal...and very quickly forgot most of Maribelle’s etiquette lessons. “This is delicious,” he managed between bites -- and he thought he saw the woman grin in satisfaction before moving off to tend to her kitchen.

He turned to watch them as he savored his pie, marveling at the speed and ease with which they worked. A handful of staff paused as they crossed the room to pose a question or two, of where he hailed from and how he came to join the Shepherds, what Ferox was like and how he found life in the palace. He answered carefully, out of old habit, but he enjoyed the scattering of conversation nonetheless: unlike the nobles he’d spent the prior evening with, who spoke in politely worded insults and sneered at those they thought beneath them, the kitchen staff were warm, friendly, and pleasant, in spite of his dubious heritage. 

A light call at last diverted his attention from watching the goings-on. Marjorie stood just beside him, a heavy silver tea tray in her hands. She seemed more amused than anything when he offered to carry it for her, assuring him that it was no trouble in spite of his anxious insistence. Instead she followed him out of the kitchens, through the maze of corridors, and up to the archives where he opened the door for her to enter, laughing as he scrambled to clear a suitable space on the desk and gently turning aside his apologies while he shuffled parchment and books out of the way. 

He heard the church bells beyond the palace ringing an instant before a light rap sounded on the door. As he turned, it opened to reveal Maribelle, the forced smile painted on her face relaxing as she looked around the room and realized that the sweet-toothed thief was not in attendance. Robin offered a polite bow alongside Marjorie’s deep curtsy, which Maribelle returned with a delicate bob of her head; and though the duchess quirked an eyebrow when Robin bid a warm farewell to the serving woman, she did not remark on it, instead taking a seat and folding her hands in her lap. 

“I must say, this is quite a surprise,” she remarked, watching as he lifted the china teapot and poured them each a cup (clucking her tongue to remind him of his etiquette when the spout touched the rim, but seeming satisfied once he raised it an inch). “You’ve not treated me to tea before.”

“Well, we’ve not had an opportunity to speak since yesterday evening,” he remarked, settling across from her. Though he did not remark outright on her visit that morning, her eyes narrowed at the veiled implication. 

“I do apologize for my hasty departure earlier,” she offered. “But I hope you have considered my advice.”

“I have,” he replied, lifting his cup and saucer from the tray. “Though I’m afraid I’m rather at a loss, as Gaius has proven quite the steadfast ally to this point. Have you had previous dealings with him?”

The duchess frowned, hiding it behind a sip from her own cup. “I have had the _great_ misfortune of seeing first-hand what a louse he is. Some years ago, he was captured attempting to break into the royal treasury, and to save his wretched hide he claimed that my father had _hired_ him to do so. My poor father was dragged before the magistery court and nearly put to death over those false charges, and while he escaped the axe his reputation was all but ruined by that thieving cur.”

“...I see.” Well, that certainly explained a great deal. “I do appreciate your forthright advice.”

“Think nothing of it,” she tutted. “I consider it my duty to keep misfortune from falling upon a friend.”

A faint smile touched the tactician’s lips as he bowed his head. “I am truly grateful,” he murmured. He sensed that there was rather more to the story than he could yet see...but that, he knew, would need to wait. “I do hope you’ll forgive me for leading off with such a troubling topic. Please, tell me about your evening -- I hardly caught more than a glimpse of you after the first dance. Did it all turn out as well as you’d hoped?”

“It surpassed my every expectation,” she sighed, setting her cup primly back in its saucer. “The feasting, the music, the décor...truly, I could not have asked for a more perfect execution. And you certainly did well for yourself,” she added, lifting her teacup in a delicate toast. “The nobles were quite enthralled by your performance. I heard more than a few young ladies -- and gentlemen, for that matter -- inquiring about you among their circles.”

He made a small sound that he prayed could pass for approving interest. Noble scrutiny did not bode well, in his mind, however much it seemed to excite the duchess. “Would you say we were successful in mollifying them, then?” he ventured. 

Maribelle hummed thoughtfully, tapping a fingertip on the handle of her cup. “Judging by the mood at the close of the festivities last night, I believe that these efforts managed to placate them for the moment. The further Lord Chrom pursues this matter of opening the council to commoners, the more care that will need to be taken, but at present the majority of noble families seem satisfied with the show of favor they’ve been afforded.”

“...you say the majority,” he noted. “Not all feel so amenable?”

The duchess’ idle tapping increased in pace. “There are those who seem to suspect ulterior motives behind the celebration,” she agreed. Which, Robin had to admit, was not an inaccurate assumption on their part. “I also heard a rather troubling bit of hearsay pertaining to one of the northern noblemen assembling a mercenary force…”

“Shoure?” he offered. “The councilman?”

Maribelle quirked an eyebrow, her hands going still. “Pray tell, where did you hear that?”

The tactician shrugged slightly, lifting his own cup. “Something I heard in passing,” he murmured. “I was unsure of how much stock to put in such a rumor, but hearing something so similar from you does lend it a measure of credence.”

Her lips thinned as she raised her teacup again. “I had not heard a name put to that bit of gossip,” she admitted. “But if it truly _is_ the Duke of Shoure, Lord Chrom may need to take further action rather more swiftly than I would have anticipated.”

Robin frowned, a prickle of anxiety creeping the length of his spine. “Why is that?” 

“The Dukedom of Shoure is one of the oldest lineages in the halidom,” she explained. “They possess significant holdings in land and wealth both, to say nothing of the influence they wield among the nobility. The duke’s eldest granddaughter is not so much older than Lord Chrom, and was widely considered a favorite to become queen consort before our dear friend Sumia swooped in and stole the prince’s heart.”

He was rather surprised to see a fond sort of smile warring with the troubled look in the duchess’ eyes. “What would you recommend, then?” he asked. “Can you think of any way to placate him?” The last thing Ylisse needed so soon after the end of a war was a class conflict…

Maribelle sipped her tea, holding out her cup as he poured another for himself. While he carefully refilled her china, mindful not to let the spout touch the rim, she offered an approving smile, sitting comfortably back again as he set the pot back on the tray. “As I recall...Sumia has yet to appoint any ladies in waiting, correct?”

The tactician tilted his head slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t know,” he replied. “Why do you ask?” 

“It...is not ideal,” the noblewoman began, her fingertip beginning to tap out a steady rhythm once again, “but the position of the queen consort’s lady in waiting is highly valued among the nobility, as it gives them unique access to the royal family. Granting such an appointment to the duke’s granddaughter may satisfy him…though it could be a dangerous proposal.”

“...would she try to harm Sumia?” Robin pressed. 

“It’s not unheard-of,” Maribelle agreed. “Poisoning plots have been rooted out in the past, and gods only know how many weren’t uncovered, or even succeeded. Ladies have also been known to seduce an Exalt, dissolving a marriage to claim power for their own families…”

The tactician hid a faint smile behind his teacup. That, at least, seemed unlikely to succeed. “So how would Sumia go about choosing candidates for the position?” 

“Well, given that the ball was her true debut before the noble court, the poor dear doesn’t yet have the requisite insight into the various lineages and workings of the nobility as a whole,” the duchess sighed. “I highly doubt she would be capable of making suitable choices, especially given the current climate…”

“Would you be able to?”

Maribelle met his eye, one brow rising in clear question. “I can think of no one who knows the nobility better than you,” Robin explained. “And no one who is better equipped to understand which families pose the greatest risk to stability and progress, and which individuals among them pose the least threat to Sumia herself. I know that you have matters of great import to attend, but...would you consider it?”

The noblewoman smiled, inclining her head very slightly toward him. “Flattery will get you quite far with the nobility.”

“I speak the truth,” Robin protested. “I would not think to imply that your studies are of lesser worth -- the magistery court would greatly benefit from your presence -- but I can think of no one better suited to this task. Would you consider it?”

Tutting thoughtfully, Maribelle sat back in her chair. “You seem quite invested in assuring that all of this progresses smoothly,” she remarked. “Pray tell, why is that?”

“Should I not be?”

“Make no mistake, I think it’s quite admirable that you show such a keen interest. But I am equally certain that there will be others who question it, given that you are not from Ylisse, yourself.”

A wan smile tugged at his expression as he set his cup and saucer aside, folding his hands neatly on the desk before him. “I would hope that where I was born and where I hail from would not matter in this case. Chrom and Sumia -- forgive me, Lord Chrom and Lady Sumia,” he corrected, catching her sharp glance, “are dear friends to me. All of the Shepherds are. I want to see them safe and happy: we endured a war already, and all I hope to ensure is that they will not find themselves entrenched in yet another.”

The duchess tittered politely, turning a soft grin of her own on him. “Lord Chrom could not have chosen a better tactician or advisor,” she remarked. “You will make someone a lovely husband someday, I’m sure -- and they will be lucky to have you, if you treat them even half as well as you do us.”

Robin blinked, taken entirely by surprise by the sudden praise. “...I thank you,” he murmured, bowing his head slightly. “Does that mean you will take it into consideration?”

“Indeed I will. _If,_ ” she warned as he drew breath, “you would be so kind as to assemble additional resources for my magistery application and studies.”

He laughed softly as he offered his hand across the table. “You have yourself a deal, milady,” he agreed as she set her own teacup aside and accepted his hand in a remarkably firm shake.

As he sat back, a knock sounded at the door behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, the tactician rose from his seat, turning to face the balding man crossing the threshold. “Good afternoon, sir,” Robin called, offering an apologetic bob of his head to Maribelle before approaching the stranger. 

“Goodness me, I hardly recognize this place anymore,” the man wheezed, adjusting his spectacles as he looked around the room. “The last time I set foot in here I was nearly buried when a tower of books collapsed, though that was a few years ago now...my, I’d heard there was a new archivist, but I never would have imagined he’d be able to clear this place out, let alone salvage it…”

“It was no small task, but the results speak for themselves,” Robin agreed. “May I help you with something?”

The stranger paused, squinting behind the round lenses as he looked the tactician up and down. “Would...you be the archivist in question?”

“Indeed,” Robin replied, offering a slight bow.

“Ah. Yes. Well. Right.” The man fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment, patting the front of his robes and finally producing a small scrap of parchment. “There’s been an inquiry from the magistery,” he explained, holding it out in the tips of his fingers. “A case underway has encountered a question of precedent, and given that the archives house all former court records…”

“I see,” the tactician murmured, unfolding the note and glancing over the flowing script. “I can point you toward the volumes in question--”

“I have other duties to tend,” the man interjected, backing toward the door. “Simply send the findings on to the magistery when the search is complete.”

“How rude,” Maribelle huffed as the door closed. “Pushing his own task off on someone else without even so much as a word of apology or gratitude -- you’d be best served sending it directly back to the magistery and insisting they handle their own inquiries.”

“Is this not part of being the archivist?” he asked, glancing again at the parchment.

“I wouldn’t imagine so,” she replied, though she sounded less than certain.

“Unfortunately, I’ve no one to consult with on that matter,” he sighed. “And it would not do to delay an answer that may affect lives. I apologize for cutting our tea short,” he added as the duchess rose from her chair, setting her cup aside. 

“Please, you’ve no need to apologize. Duty calls,” she insisted. “I’ll see to arrangements with Sumia in the meantime. Do take care, Robin.”

“And you, as well,” he smiled. Escorting her to the door, he offered a formal bow as he saw her out, straightening very slightly in response to her approving nod. But as she departed, he leaned back against the doorframe, once more scanning the clipped missive in his hands. He knew where to begin at least...but he hoped that this would not become a regular occurrence. 

***

The fortnight following the ball had been more hectic than Sumia could have imagined. Between training with the Pegasus Knights, the resurgence of her etiquette lessons, and a rather surprising proposal from Maribelle, she had been pulled in so many different directions that she’d barely found time to rest, let alone read. And her own maddening schedule seemed simple compared to Chrom’s: council debates with Robin filled so many of his mornings and reconstruction meetings took up most of his afternoons, keeping him late enough that the most time they spent together was over the morning and evening meals before retiring for the night. 

She was getting sick of it. 

It made her feel a bit guilty, since she was doing the least work. But she was tired of the constant instruction and chiding, of struggling to remember every minor title for every minor noble, of needing to steal time enough just to brush her pegasus down after training. She needed a change of pace, a chance to breathe, before it all started driving her mad. 

So instead of watching the pegasus knights practice their afternoon flight drills, she turned her steps toward the archives. Even if she hadn’t finished her last novel, she missed the quiet calm of the library, the wonderful smell of books...but most of all, she missed Robin. Chrom might have seen the tactician every day in the council meetings, but Sumia hadn’t caught a glimpse of him in days, and they hadn’t spoken more than a passing greeting in a week or more. Hopefully he wouldn’t mind an interruption…

Knocking lightly at the door, she waited for a moment, rocking on her heels as she listened for any response from within...but she heard nothing at all. “Robin?” she called, peering tentatively inside. It wasn’t often that he stepped out, but if he was around he always answered a knock at the door…

As she glanced toward the desk, though, she saw a very familiar figure hunched over a stack of books and parchment. Moving quietly across the room, she took a seat in the chair across from the tactician, watching as he pored over the pages of a thick tome. With one hand nested in his hair and the other running swiftly down the dense lines of text, he looked...overwhelmed -- an impression underscored by the dark rings under his eyes. 

He didn’t look up at her. She waited, turning the ring on her finger a few times and wondering if she should try again to get his attention. He’d said he didn’t like being taken off guard, but...did it count if he was so engrossed that he missed her arrival? 

As she drew a breath to call again, his gaze flickered up toward her. She sat up with a smile, folding her hands in her lap--

“Sumia!”

Robin lunged back, the chair nearly overturning from the force of the motion (though he thankfully managed to catch the edge of the desk, barely keeping himself upright). In an instant she was on her feet and at his side, touching his shoulder comfortingly as he pressed a hand to his heart. “Gods, you startled me -- I didn’t hear you come in! I-I hope you haven’t been waiting long…?”

“Just a few moments,” she assured him. “You seemed busy, so I didn’t want to break your concentration.”

He mustered a weak smile, glancing at the haphazard piles of books strewn before him. “I do apologize for not greeting you,” he mumbled. “I’ve...t-there’s just been so much to do lately, and…”

“What is all this?” she murmured, touching a slip of parchment tucked within the pages of the nearest tome. 

“Inquiries,” he sighed. “Now that the archives are in better order, I’ve been flooded with requests for information. Some have been rather straightforward, but others...require more digging. Specific cases from magistery records, obscure articles of common law…”

“Maribelle’s not asking all this of you, is she?” the pegasus knight asked. 

“Oh, no, Maribelle does her own research,” he chuckled. “These are...from magistery judges, primarily. A few are items to discuss with Chrom prior to our next council meeting, but…”

She frowned slightly, watching his hand shake as he touched the open text before him. “How many of these have you done?”

“...I don’t know. I lost count somewhere after the second dozen--”

“Two dozen!?” she repeated. 

“I’ve done more, I just don’t know how many,” he corrected. “And I’ve lost all track of how many I still need to fulfill.”

“How long have you been doing this?” she pressed, squeezing his shoulder gently. 

“This is all I’ve done in the past fortnight. Besides council meetings with Chrom. It wasn’t so bad to begin with, there were just two or three, and it was an interesting challenge, but...gods, there are so many now, I-I…”

His breath hitched, the rest of his words stumbling into silence as a tremor ran under her fingers. “Don’t you have anyone to help you?” she asked.

Robin shook his head, pressing an unsteady hand against his face. “They’ve all just left the requests. And I don’t know who else I would go to. I’m the only one here, s-so it would...it makes sense that this would be my duty, doesn’t it?”

“You can’t do all of this alone,” she insisted. 

“What choice do I have?”

His voice sounded so small. She’d heard this hopelessness in him once before -- after the disaster in the Plegian castle courtyard, standing by Chrom’s bedside in the infirmary, overwhelmed by doubt in the face of his perceived failure...and even as she ran her hand across his shoulders, she felt his shivering grow more fitful. “I have to do this,” he mumbled. “These matters have to be timely, so it’s my duty to see that they’re completed, isn’t it? That’s...that’s what being the archivist means. It depends o-on…on me.”

Hushing him gently, Sumia placed herself between the the tactician and his desk, wrapping her arms around him. “It’s okay, Robin,” she whispered. “Don’t worry, it’ll all be okay, it will…”

“What if I fail, though?” he breathed, his voice breaking as he slipped his arms around her, hiding his face in the curve of her neck. “What if I make a mistake, what if I miss something, w-what...what happens if I can’t…”

Warmth began to seep through her blouse where his head rested against her shoulder. “You should take a break,” she murmured. 

“I-I can’t, I still have so much--”

“It’ll be easier if you step back a little, though,” she insisted. “That’s what my father always says when he’s working on a new design. He gets so deep in the weeds that he can’t see the garden, so he goes and does something else. When I was little he’d take me with him to visit my mother in the market, or take a little walk, or watch us in the kitchen...something different. It let him see things more clearly when he went back to work later. It won’t hurt anything, I promise…”

Robin sniffed thickly, slumping back in his chair and wiping the edge of his sleeve across his face. “I need to tend these,” he mumbled, gesturing vaguely toward the books stacked behind Sumia’s back. 

“...well...what about those things you needed to discuss with Chrom? He said he’d try to join me for tea this afternoon, after the reconstruction meeting, so...why not join us? That way you can still get something done while you take a break from all this. Right?”

He had no ready answer for that. But still, she held her breath, fighting down the urge to twist the ring on her finger as she waited for him to speak…

“...it would make things easier, being able to discuss this in advance,” he conceded. “When should I arrive?”

“Why not come now?” she offered. “It won’t be that long until tea time, so…”

The tactician glanced toward the far side of the room at the sunlight slanting through the windows. “I hadn’t realized it was so late. I thought…”

Sumia touched his shoulder again, offering another reassuring squeeze that did nothing to still his tremors. “Did you have lunch?” He shook his head, staring down at his fingers as he rubbed the back of his hand. “...did you have breakfast?” she ventured warily. Again, he shook his head, folding his hands tight. “It’s a good thing it’s almost teatime,” she said, trying to laugh and wishing it didn’t sound quite so hollow in her ears. “I can help you carry things, if you need.”

“Thank you,” he murmured, offering a weak smile as he stumbled to his feet. Rummaging through the heaps of parchment and stacks of books, he selected a handful of documents and a particularly well-worn tome, passing the papers to her as he tucked the text under his arm. She rolled the parchment carefully as she led the way out of the library, through the halls, and up the stairs toward their rooms...and as she saw him into the parlour, she caught the attention of a passing maid, asking quietly if she could request a few extra tarts from the kitchens, as Robin would be joining them for tea. 

The staff did far more than she’d expected. Ordinarily tea was a snack at best, a plate of cookies or a few small cakes -- but they filed in one by one, arranging platters of tiny sandwiches, scones, and pastries on either side of the tea tray with its assortment of china bowls and cups. The tactician stared after the servants as they filed out (and the pegasus knight swore she saw one of the women wink back at him) before turning his attention to the lavish spread. “Is...is this what you usually have at tea with Chrom?” he asked. “Maribelle’s are always smaller, even when Lissa joins us…”

“W-well, Chrom usually has a big appetite,” Sumia offered hastily, taking a scone to cover her half-truth. “We can start, he did say he might get held up at his afternoon audience…”

The tactician made a small sound, breathing a slow sigh before lifting the teapot and pouring them each a cup; though the spout did not touch the china rims, she could still see the tremor in his hands as he set it down, sinking back into the plush cushions with his cup and a light biscuit. “Forgive my manners,” he added. “Maribelle would have my head if she knew -- how have you been?”

Sumia smiled, washing down her pastry with a sip of tea. “Busy! It seems like all of us have been, doesn’t it? I’m still helping Cordelia with the pegasus knights -- they’re getting so much better, she thinks that soon they’ll be ready for testing, and if they pass they can move on to the next training rank and start taking on missions…”

“You never did that, did you?” he asked. 

“I was...a special case, I guess,” she murmured, touching the band on her wrist. “I got all my training in the field with the Shepherds, and Cordelia knew how far I’d come, so...she didn’t bother with testing, she just made sure I was inducted.”

“You deserved it,” he insisted, smiling as he took a glazed crowberry tart from another platter. 

She blushed, twisting a lock of hair shyly around her finger. “The etiquette lessons are back, too,” she continued. “And Maribelle came to me a week or so ago about appointing ladies in waiting, so she’s been trying to teach me about all the different noble houses and their titles and members and...it makes my head spin. There’s just so many of them! And you have to get everything _exactly right_ and make sure you greet everyone in a _very specific order_ or you’re causing _grave offense_ and…”

Glancing up, she saw him smiling over the rim of his cup. “Your Maribelle impression is quite good,” he chuckled. “Though I doubt she would consider it terribly queenly if she knew you had one.”

The pegasus knight flushed over her pastry. “P-please don’t tell her,” she mumbled. 

“Your secret is safe with me, milady,” he promised, laying a hand over his heart. Beaming, Sumia continued on, attempting to recite at least some small portion of the duchess’ instruction (the bit she’d managed to retain, at least), watching as the array of treats began to dwindle in the face of Robin’s appetite...and softening her voice as the conversation gradually turned more and more one-sided, the tactician’s attention there but seeming hazy at best. 

“You look tired,” she remarked gently. 

He nodded wearily, rubbing his eyes with the tips of his fingers. “I’m not terribly good company, am I?” he mumbled. 

“You’re fine company,” she assured him, reaching across the table to fold her hand around his. “You’re just tired. Do you want to lay down for a while?”

“I can’t, there’s still so much more to be done--”

“Just until Chrom comes?” she pleaded. 

He said nothing for a moment, turning his gaze down to their joined fingers. But at last he nodded, breathing a slow sigh as he gently squeezed her hand. Helping him up to his feet, Sumia led him into the sunny bedroom, settling beside him as he took a seat on the edge of the bed. “You can take your boots off, if you want,” she murmured. “If you’d be more comfortable.”

“He won’t be that long, will he?” Robin asked, casting a wary glance toward the threshold. 

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “He promised he’d try to make it out of the reconstruction meeting early, but it seems like he’s been delayed, so...it would hurt, though, would it? You know Chrom wouldn’t mind you taking a break -- you can stretch out a little, relax…”

“What if he’s not alone when he arrives?” the tactician whispered. 

“I can go out and make sure he is,” Sumia promised. “He usually manages to shake Frederick at the door, but I’ll make sure of it. Okay?”

“...I suppose,” he relented. And after a long moment, he did lean down to remove his boots, curling tight atop the sun-warmed blankets at the head of the bed. She watched him, briefly, her heart aching to see him look so small, so worn…

Pulling off her own boots, she stretched across the bedclothes to join him. He tensed, stirring again as she settled alongside him...but when her arms slipped around his shoulders, his breath quieted. “Are you sure this is alright?” he mumbled. 

“Do you mind it?” she asked, snuggling closer and touching her forehead against his.

“...it’s nice,” he breathed. 

“Good,” she smiled, touching a kiss to his hairline. “Just relax. Try to get some rest.”

He made a soft sound, ducking his head against her shoulder. Smoothing his pale hair, she listened as his breath began to even and slow, letting the warmth of the sun through the windows lull her…

A sound from the parlour started her out of her doze. “Sumia? I’m sorry I couldn’t make it sooner, my audiences ran long…”

By the time she registered Chrom’s voice, Robin had already roused, struggling with his boots even as she lay a hand reassuringly on his shoulder. Slipping off the bed, she walked to the doorway, glancing around the otherwise empty room as Chrom moved to embrace her. “It’s okay,” she called softly. 

Her husband’s brows rose slightly as the tactician slipped into view, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Did I miss something fun?” he asked. 

“No,” Robin mumbled. 

“We had a nice tea and took a little nap,” she explained, touching the tactician’s arm. 

“...it looks like you needed it,” the prince muttered. “When was the last time you slept?”

“A few minutes ago,” Robin replied. 

“Before that,” Chrom huffed. The tactician shook his head, raking a hand through his hair. “Lay down--”

“I can't, I’ve already overstayed--”

“It can wait.”

“It _has_ waited, I need to _go--_ ”

“Robin.”

As the tactician tried to move past him, the prince caught his arm. “Take a breath,” he murmured. She heard Robin comply, drawing in a shaky inhale as Chrom slipped an arm around his shoulders. “Another. One more. That’s it. Calm down, it’s alright…”

The tactician released a slow, unsteady sigh, lifting a hand to rub the back of his neck. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” the prince insisted. “Just relax.”

“There should still be some tea left,” Sumia offered, touching Robin’s hand. “We can sit and talk for a while…”

“I really should be going--”

“It won’t hurt to stay a bit longer,” Chrom protested. 

“And you said you had something to discuss, remember?” the pegasus knight reminded him. 

“Do we have to go straight to business?” the prince complained, guiding Robin to the couch. “I’ve barely seen you lately -- and the council meetings don’t count.”

“Better to deal with it first, in case we’re interrupted,” Robin murmured, collecting his parchment and smoothing the scrolls across his lap. Chrom settled in close beside him, keeping one arm around Robin’s waist as they all leaned in to read the tight script. 

Sumia didn’t exactly follow their conversation. She certainly recognized more than a few names mentioned, but the details of the tactician’s proposal seemed to hinge on some intricacy of the Ylissean legal system that meant nothing at all to her. But she still paid close attention, pouring them each a cup of lukewarm tea to sip over during their discussion. 

They’d only barely finished their planning when a knock sounded at the door. She felt Robin tense beside her, and folded her fingers gently around his hand while the prince’s arm pulled him closer. “Yes?” he called. 

“Milord,” Frederick’s voice replied. “Supper will be ready shortly. Shall I escort you to the dining hall now?”

“We’re in the middle of something,” Chrom said. “Let us know when it’s ready.”

“Of course, Milord.” The familiar clanking of the great knight’s armor sounded muted through the stone and heavy wood, fading rapidly from earshot as the tactician rose from his place between them. 

“I believe that’s my cue to take my leave,” he murmured, gathering his tome and parchment. 

“Can’t you stay?” the pegasus knight pleaded. 

“You could join us at dinner,” the prince agreed. 

Robin mustered a wan smile. “I think that would be the height of impropriety--”

“Propriety be _damned!”_ Chrom snarled. 

“It’s a necessity,” the tactician shrugged, turning to offer a polite bow to the prince and his wife both. “I’ll see you in the morning for the council meeting. And thank you for a lovely tea. Good evening, Chrom. Sumia.”

“Try to get some rest,” she called after him. Smiling faintly, Robin inclined his head before moving to the door and vanishing into the halls beyond. 

“I hate it when he talks like that,” Chrom muttered. 

“He’s just trying to protect us,” the pegasus knight insisted, shifting closer to her husband as he slipped an arm around her shoulders. 

“...I know. But that doesn’t help when he gets like that -- what even happened?”

“He said there’s been a flood of inquiries from the magistery, and he’s alone trying to fulfill them all…” She fell silent for a moment, glancing up at the prince as his arm tightened around her. “He’s been like this before?”

“He did this constantly during the campaign,” Chrom sighed. “He’d get so wrapped up in planning our next move that he’d forget meals, and the stress kept him from getting any sleep. ...this archivist appointment wasn’t meant to be such a burden. Something to challenge him, maybe, so he wasn’t bored, but...I’d thought it would ease his worries, not add to them.”

“I didn’t know he worried so much.” It would explain how worn he sometimes seemed in Plegia, but she couldn’t have guessed how deep it ran…

“He says it’s always there,” the prince murmured. “Whether it’s...just a sense of unease or utter panic. ...I broke him, once,” he confessed, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper. “I knew he was upset, but I was too -- I kept pushing, and...he collapsed. His knees gave out, he gasped like he couldn’t breathe, and even when I called him -- even when I held him, he didn’t react. Like he couldn’t hear me at all. Even after it passed, he just kept shaking, and he was so quiet…”

She had seen that, hadn’t she? When she’d found him in the archives with that dark-haired woman, he’d seemed so anxious long after their escape...somehow, even then, she hadn’t realized how fragile he truly was beneath that mask of calm. 

“Maybe he needs a break,” she offered. 

“Good luck convincing him,” Chrom muttered bitterly. “I don’t think he knows how to stop. I’ve tried: the best I’ve ever managed was getting him to spend a few hours in a bedroll, and by the time I woke up he was already working again. He swore he slept, but I don’t know if I believe it.”

“You’re joking.” Gods, she hoped he was joking.

“I only wish,” he snorted. 

“...then...maybe we need to _make_ him take a break. Take him somewhere that he doesn’t have any work to do, and where he can’t get any more.”

“...like a vacation?”

“Exactly! It doesn’t hurt to try...right?”

“...I think you’re right,” the prince grinned, sitting up from his slump. “And I think I know just the place.”

***

Robin was still stunned by how rapidly Chrom had managed to settle the matter of adding members to the standing council. After weeks of debate over suitable criteria, negotiating and renegotiating, pushing back against unfair requests and giving no ground they could not spare, somehow the prince managed to put the whole affair to rest in no more than a few days, stressing the brief article of law the tactician had uncovered by chance during his search through the archives. It did state, in undeniable language, that there were no restrictions by blood for members of the Exalt’s council...but the speed with which the prince cowed them left him reeling. 

Equally shocking was how swiftly Chrom moved ahead with the next steps of their plan. Before the tactician had time to so much as consider a route, Frederick had the round-trip planned and preparations made for the journey -- and much to Robin’s surprise, the prince insisted on seeing the tactician accompany the procession. After all, Chrom had said (with that charming smile that made Robin’s heart stumble in his chest), he couldn’t manage the selection without his right-hand man. 

The journey felt familiar, in some ways. Though their company was far smaller -- the prince, queen consort, and princess, of course, along with their great knight warden; the tactician-turned-adviser; and a small detachment of Shepherds to act as guards -- and they traveled by carriage rather than marching across the halidom (which proved a mixed blessing, sparing them from the mounting heat of summer while preventing him from assessing the route ahead and any threats that might await), he recognized many of the towns they visited from their trek on Emmeryn’s behalf. It was hard to believe that they had passed through these places not even a full year prior…

At each stop, the prince and his wife spoke to the people -- many of whom had traveled from smaller villages in all directions to see the royal family -- describing their vision for Ylisse in glowing terms: a land where birth need not determine the heights one could reach, where blood would not be the only measure of worth...and no matter how many times Robin heard the words repeated, they always moved him. He wanted to believe in such a land. And he vowed to do everything in his power to make it real. 

Chrom’s open invitation to hear from those interested in joining the council was met with great interest, coupled with equal hesitation. Perhaps it was Robin’s presence at the prince’s side, clear evidence that even a man who hailed from foreign lands could stand at their ruler’s right; perhaps it was Sumia’s arm linked with Chrom’s, and the knowledge that their kind new queen had no more noble blood than they; or perhaps it was simply Chrom’s irrepressible charm, coupled with his earnest belief in the plan they’d laid out; but whatever the case, they approached one by one, shy but eager to make their cases for consideration. In turn, the tactician dutifully took note of their words, asking questions of each to determine their qualifications based on the criteria agreed upon with the seated council for later discussion with the prince. 

Several weeks of travel took them along the southern edge of the halidom, skirting the edge of the eastern desert, and through the narrow mountain pass leading north toward Ylisse’s border with Regna Ferox. According to Frederick’s planned course, they would reach the Northroad by nightfall, and from there proceed south back to the capital -- a thought that made his chest constrict anew when he remembered the duties and pressures that awaited them all on their return. Better not to consider that just yet. 

As the carriages rolled to a stop with the fall of evening, the tactician breathed a steadying sigh. Opening the door, he stepped down--

And stopped short, staring blankly at the grand palace before them, its pale stone walls glowing softly in the final light of day. A towering mountain rose behind it, its peak veiled in pink-tinged clouds, while fields of flowers stretched away in all directions, giving way to woodland on one side, cliffs overlooking the sea on the other. 

“This isn’t the Northroad,” he stated numbly. He had never seen its like before--

“I didn’t know we were going to the summer palace!!” 

Lissa’s giddy cry broke him from his reverie. “The summer palace?” he repeated. “I thought we were going back to Ylisstol...”

“And I thought that we all deserved a break.”

Robin turned to Chrom as the prince and his wife approached. “...you planned this,” he said.

“We did,” Sumia giggled. “Are you surprised?” 

_”Yeah!”_ Lissa squealed. “This is the _best!_ ” 

“But there’s so much to be done,” the tactician protested. “We still have to review the potential candidates for the council and--”

“All of that can wait,” Chrom grinned, patting Robin’s shoulder. “Right now, we’re all on holiday. And that includes you.”

“Supper should be awaiting us, milord,” Frederick announced cheerfully as he moved to join them. “Shall we make our way inside?”

“That sounds like a fine idea,” the prince laughed, patting the tactician’s shoulder. And before Robin could object further, Lissa grabbed his arm and dragged him across the flowering lawns toward the warm glow of the palace beyond. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we're going to the beach 8D ~ <3 I hope you're looking forward to it as much as I am! ~~I know at least[one person](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AcquaSole) is... <3~~


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